Perv!Mingi and his not so subtle obsession with you
3,917 - perv! mingi, swearing, masturbation (m), fingering, oral (f! receiving), p in v, creaempie, hyperspermia. Based off of this post
Mingi was the kind of guy who made girls' heads turn at a distance — tall, broad-shouldered, with a sharp jaw and dark eyes that could cut glass.
Up close, though, the cracks showed. He showed up late to class, if he showed up at all. His assignments were a mess. He spent more time at the campus convenience store buying energy drinks and junk food than in the lecture hall. His friends Wooyoung, San, Yeosang, and Hongjoong called him a hot loser to his face, and he never argued. He knew it was true.
His field of study — biomedical engineering — was a joke at this point. He'd chosen it because it sounded impressive, because his parents expected something respectable, because Hongjoong had said the programme had good job prospects. But Mingi had spent most of the school term skipping lectures to smoke behind the music building with Wooyoung or play basketball with San. Truly, his grades were hovering somewhere between "academic probation" and "please just drop out."
Honestly, if he spent half as much time studying as he spent ogling the girls he encountered in passing, his grades could improve from their hellscape. But he was so easily distracted by fantasising about girls he'd never have the guts to talk to.
Especially you.
He first saw you in the library during midterm season while waiting for Hongjoong to "study". You were sitting at a corner table with Seonghwa, his friend from the music production club. Seonghwa was laughing at something on your laptop screen, his hand resting casually on your shoulder. Mingi's gut twisted. He'd never seen you before, but from that moment, he couldn't stop looking.
You were pretty in a quiet, focused way — hair pulled back, glasses perched on your nose, lips slightly parted as you explained something to Seonghwa. Your shirt was loose, but when you leaned forward to point at the screen, the neckline gaped, and Mingi caught a glimpse of the curve of your breast. His cock twitched in his jeans.
He sat down at a table across the room, pulled out a textbook he knew he wasn't going to read, and watched you for the next two hours.
When he got home, he rushed to his bedroom. He had spent the entire time at the library observing you; the image of you leaning over that library table, your shirt gaping, burned into his brain. The soft curve of your breast peeking through. He'd jerked off to that memory four times since midterms. Four times, each session longer than the last, his hand wrapped around his thick cock, stroking until his balls tightened and he spilt rope after rope of cum into a wad of tissues.
That became his routine. Every day, he found an excuse to be in the library at the same time you were there.
He'd sit far enough not to be obvious but close enough to see everything. He memorised the way you bit your pen when you were thinking, the way you stretched your arms above your head when you'd been studying too long, the way your shirt rode up just enough to show a sliver of stomach.
His friends noticed.
Wooyoung caught him staring one afternoon and elbowed San. "Holy shit, he's actually drooling," Wooyoung whispered, loud enough for the entire floor to hear.
"Suck my dick," Mingi muttered, not taking his eyes off you.
"You wish." Wooyoung retorted, rolling his eyes at his friend's creepy staring.
"What would you even say to her?" San asked, leaning in. "'Hey, I know I've never spoken to you, but I've been fapping off to you for three weeks.' Want to study together?"
"Fuck off."
Hongjoong, ever the sensible one of the friend group, sighed. "If you're that obsessed, just talk to her. She's friends with Seonghwa. I can set something up."
Mingi's heart hammered; he looked like a kid in a confectionery store mixed with one caught with their fingers in the cookie jar as he stared at Hongjoong. "Set something up how?"
"I'll tell Seonghwa you need tutoring. He'll recommend her. She's like, top of the class. Then you get private sessions with her. Easy."
It really was easy. It was terrifyingly too simple.
A week later, Mingi sat in his dorm room, which smelled like stale energy drinks, his favourite Jo Malone cologne and regrets. He lay sprawled across his bed, phone clutched in his hand, when Seonghwa texted Mingi with a time and an address.
Hwa: 'She says she can help you with your assignment. Be on time, and don't fuck this up, asshole.'
He'd been half-hard since reading it, and now, two hours before he was supposed to meet you, Mingi lay in bed and let his mind wander. His hand drifted down to his sweatpants, palming his half-hard length.
He imagined what it would be like to have you beneath him. To feel your legs wrapped around his waist, your mouth open against his, your fingers digging into his back. He wondered what sounds you'd make — soft little gasps or needy moans?
Would you let him fuck you slowly, or would you want it rough?
Would you want his cum inside you?
The thought made his cock twitch, already hardening. He imagined gripping your hips, pumping into you, feeling his release build until he couldn't hold back anymore. Thick, hot ropes flooding your pussy, leaking down your thighs, marking you as his.
"Fuck," he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut.
He was getting hard just thinking about it. His hand slipped beneath the waistband of his sweats, fingers wrapping around his shaft. Already slick with precum, he started stroking — slow at first, then faster, his breathing ragged.
In his mind, it was your hand wrapped around him. Your palm sliding up and down his length, your thumb circling the tip, spreading the precum. His room filled with low groans and sharp gasps as he continued jerking off. He imagined you stroking him until he couldn't take it anymore, until he begged you to let him come, and when you finally whispered, "Go ahead. Show me how much you want it." His hips bucked into his fist. Precum dripped onto his stomach. He could feel the pressure building in his balls, that familiar ache that meant he was about to unload.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck–"
He came hard, his back arching off the mattress. Cum pumped out of him in thick, white ropes, splattering across his stomach, his chest, pooling in his navel. He kept stroking through it, milking himself dry, until his arm was soaked and he was panting like he'd run a marathon.
When he finally opened his eyes, he stared at the mess he'd made.
Get it together, he told himself. You're about to see her. Don't fuck this up.
Mingi showed up at your flat thirty minutes early due to a mixture of nerves and lack of choice. Wooyoung had kicked him out of their shared dorm because he and San were "conducting important musical research" that apparently required privacy and a locked door.
"You're not staying here," Wooyoung had said flatly, blocking the doorway. "Go study or something."
"Where am I supposed to go?"
"Literally anywhere else."
Hongjoong had passed by on his way out with a smirk and a stack of composition notebooks under his arm. "Heard you're getting tutored by Seonghwa's friend. The hot one from the library."
Mingi's face burned as he fidgeted with his clothes slightly. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sure you don't," Hongjoong clapped him on the shoulder. "Try not to drool on the textbooks. They're expensive."
The rest of the walk to your flat, Mingi replayed their teasing in his head. He hated that they knew. Hated that they could see right through him. But more than that, he hated that he couldn't stop thinking about you long enough to form a coherent sentence.
When you answered the door, his brain short-circuited. You looked soft, comfortable, real, and his cock twitched in his jeans despite the fact that he'd just jerked off not even two hours ago.
You lived in a small studio near campus. "Hey," you said, stepping aside. "Come in."
As Mingi followed you further in, his eyes darted around the room, and he noted the walls were covered in posters of bands he didn't know. Polaroids of you and friends smiling, fairy lights draped over the window, and stacks of books on every surface.
It smelled of vanilla and laundry detergent. Mingi stood in the middle of the room, feeling too big for the space, while you cleared a spot on your desk.
"Seonghwa says you're struggling with the experimental design section," you said, pulling out a chair.
"Yeah." He sat down, trying not to stare at the way your jeans hugged your thighs. "I just– it's hard to focus." With the intensity of his stare, he's shocked he hasn't burnt a hole in your pocket. His eyes snapped back up to your face as you spun around.
You smiled at him, and it made his chest tight. "That's what I'm here for."
The first hour was torture.
You sat across from him, leaning over the desk to point at diagrams and equations, and every time you moved, your shirt shifted. He caught himself looking at your chest more than the paper. You were wearing a simple cotton top, nothing special, but he could see the outline of your bra underneath. His palms started to sweat.
"Experimental design relies on proper variable isolation," you said, tapping the textbook. "If you don't control for confounding factors, your results are meaningless."
"Right," he said, not registering a single word.
He'd been answering questions mechanically, half his brain on the work, the other half imagining what your skin would feel like under his hands. You must have noticed because you paused mid-sentence, looked up at him, and raised an eyebrow.
"Mingi. You're not listening."
"I am," he lied.
"You're staring at my boobs."
The words hit him like a slap. His face flushed neon red. He opened his mouth to deny it, tried to form an apology, but nothing came out. You didn't look angry. You looked amused, lips curving into a slow, teasing smile.
"You know, you're not as subtle as you think." You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms under your chest, pushing your breasts up slightly. Mingi's mouth went dry. "I saw you in the library. You always sit at the same table, don't you? The one with the direct sightline to my spot."
"Fuck," he breathed.
"Yeah." You laughed, soft and mocking. "You're kind of a pervert, aren't you?"
"I'm sorry," he managed. "I didn't mean to– I just– you're really pretty, and I–"
You held up a hand, cutting off his stammering. "It's fine. I know how to fix this."
Your eyes sparkled with something that made his pulse race. "I have an idea. For every question you get right, you get a reward. A touch. Something simple. You tell me what you want, and I'll let you do it. Consider it motivation."
Mingi's brain short-circuited. "A touch?"
"On the honour system. You answer correctly, you get to cross one of your fantasies off the list. But you have to keep studying. And you can't cum. Not until the end. Deal?"
He nodded, barely able to speak. "Deal."
The first question was simple. You slid a worksheet toward him, and he scribbled the answer in seconds. When he looked up, you gestured at your hand resting on the table.
"Go ahead. Claim your reward."
He reached out slowly; his fingertips brushed your knuckles. The contact sent a jolt through him. He took your hand in his, rubbing his thumb over your palm. It was soft and warm.
"That," he said, voice low. "Wanted to know if you'd let me."
You let him hold it for a full minute before pulling away.
"Next question."
He answered it correctly again. This time, he got braver, his fingers sliding up to graze your neck before he leaned in slowly.
Mingi leaned in, pressing his lips to the curve of your throat. He lingered, breathing in your scent — vanilla, coffee and a hint of something spicy — before pulling back. You shivered, and he felt a surge of pride.
By the third correct answer, he was bolder. "Can I touch your thigh?"
You spread your legs slightly in answer. He slid his hand onto your knee, then slowly upward, fingers grazing the denim of your jeans. Your breath hitched. He squeezed gently, feeling the muscle beneath.
The fourth question was harder. He had to think, to recall details from the textbook he'd barely read. Something about factorial designs that he should have known but had completely blanked on. You were watching him, waiting, and his mind went blank.
"Give me a second," he muttered.
"Take your time."
But he couldn't focus. Not with his hand still resting on your thigh, not with the memory of your neck against his lips, not with the way you were looking at him — patient, amused, knowing.
He guessed wrong.
You smiled softly and shifted back in your chair. His hand slipped off your thigh, landing on empty air. You stood up, stepping away from the desk entirely, folding your arms.
"Wrong answer. No reward." Your voice was teasing but firm. "Try the next one."
Mingi groaned, running a hand through his hair. "That's cruel."
"Study motivation, remember?" You sat back down, but this time you kept the chair a few inches farther from him. "You have to earn it."
He gritted his teeth and flipped to the next page.
I'm going to get every single question right, he swore to himself. And by the end of this, I'm going to have you underneath me.
Two hours later, Mingi had answered fifteen out of twenty questions correctly. His hand had mapped the curve of your calf, the dip of your waist, the soft skin behind your ear. He'd kissed your palm, your wrist, the hollow of your throat. Each touch left him harder, more desperate, his cock aching against the zipper of his jeans.
By the time he reached the last question, he was sweating, his breathing shallow. You closed the textbook and set it aside. "Last question."
He was barely listening. His eyes traced the line of your collarbone, the way your chest rose and fell with each breath. He wanted to taste you. Wanted to feel you writhe beneath him.
"If you get this right, you get your last reward. Anything you want."
Mingi's head snapped back up to your face. That definitely got his attention. "Anything?"
"Within reason." A small smile played at your lips as you tapped your pen on the cover of the textbook.
You asked the question — something about p-values and statistical significance — and this time, Mingi didn't hesitate. The answer came easily, pulled from a corner of his brain that had actually absorbed your teaching.
"Correct. Sixteen out of twenty, a passing score." You leaned back, crossing your arms. "So. What do you want?"
Mingi stood up. His chair scraped against the floor. He rounded the desk, grabbing your hips and pulling you to your feet. Your body pressed against his, your warmth seeping through his clothes. But his hands trembled slightly, his heart hammering against his ribs. He'd never done this before, never been this close to a woman's body like this, and the anticipation was almost unbearable.
"I want you to ride me."
Your eyes widened, but you didn't pull away. "Here?"
"Here." He guided you toward the edge of your bed, sitting down and pulling you onto his lap. "Right now."
You straddled him, your thighs bracketing his hips. The heat of your cunt pressed against his clothed cock, and he groaned, his hands sliding up your sides to cup your tits through your top.
"You sure?" you whispered.
He answered by kissing you hard and desperately, his tongue sliding against yours. But his hands were shaking. His heart hammered so loud he thought you might hear it. He wanted this more than anything, but he didn't know what the hell he was doing. Every move felt like a gamble.
Instead of rushing, he pulled back, breath coming in short gasps. "Let me–" He swallowed. "Let me taste you first. Please."
He didn't wait for an answer. He slid off the bed, landing on his knees in front of you. His fingers found the button of your jeans, but they fumbled, clumsy with nerves. A frustrated laugh escaped him. "Sorry. I'm–" He didn't finish. He just focused, finally getting the button undone, pushing the denim down your thighs.
You shimmied out of your pants, and Mingi's mouth went dry. Your panties were dark at the centre, a damp patch glistening in the low light. He hooked his fingers into the waistband and pulled them down, slowly revealing your cunt inch by inch. The sight of you bare, slick, and waiting for him made his cock twitch painfully.
He leaned in, pressing a tentative kiss to the inside of your thigh. Then another, higher. His nose brushed your curls, and he inhaled your scent — musky, sweet, intoxicating. His tongue darted out, tracing a line up your slit.
You gasped, your hips shifting toward him. Encouraged, he parted your folds with his thumbs and pressed his mouth to your clit. He licked experimentally, then with more confidence as your moans grew louder. He circled the sensitive nub with his tongue, flicking and sucking, learning what made you squirm.
But he wanted more. He wanted to feel you clench around his fingers. He slid one hand up your thigh, fingers teasing your entrance. "Tell me if it's okay," he mumbled against your skin.
You nodded, breathless. "Just– go slow."
Mingi pushed one finger inside you; the heat and tightness made his head spin. He pumped it gently, then added a second, stretching you, curling them to find that spot that made your back arch. Mingi watched your face — eyes squeezed shut, lips parted — and felt a surge of power mixed with nervous wonder. He was doing this. He was making you feel good.
Your wetness coated his fingers, and he kept working you, alternating between licking your clit and tonguing your folds, until your thighs trembled and your moans turned into desperate whines. He pulled his fingers out slowly, wiping them on his own jeans before standing up.
"Okay," he said, voice rough. "Now, ride me."
He sat back on the edge of the bed, his cock straining against his jeans. He freed it with trembling hands, and a bead of precum oozed from the tip, thick and viscous, more than you'd expect. It dripped down the shaft, glistening. He pumped himself once, twice, spreading the slickness, then guided you forward.
You positioned yourself over him, the head of his cock nudging your soaked entrance. Mingi's breath hitched. He was so hard it almost hurt, the pressure building in his balls already. He gripped your hips, steadying you, trying not to thrust up.
"Slow," he repeated, more to himself than to you. "Go slow."
You sank down, inch by inch, and Mingi's eyes rolled back. The heat of your cunt, the silkiness of your walls — it was overwhelming. He bit his lip hard enough to taste blood, fighting the urge to come right there. A groan tore from his throat as you took him fully, your hips flush against his.
For a moment, neither of you moved. Then you rocked forward, and he felt another wave of precum leak from his cock, mixing with your wetness. He shuddered, fingers digging into your hips.
"Fuck, Mingi. You fill me so good," you whispered.
He couldn't speak. He just nodded, his hands trembling as you began to move; a slow, rocking grind that stole every thought from his head. You rode him with a rhythm that started gentle, then built, your hips rolling in circles while he gripped the sheets and tried not to come immediately.
The pleasure was overwhelming. Every sensation — the clench of your cunt, the slap of your thighs against his, the sight of your tits bouncing in front of his face — pushed him closer to the edge. He could feel the pressure building in his balls, that familiar ache that meant he was about to erupt.
"Fuck, I'm gonna–" He couldn't finish the sentence. His hips bucked upward, burying himself deeper as his orgasm ripped through him. Thick ropes of cum shot into you, pumping again and again, flooding your pussy with hot, white fluid. His body shuddered with the force of it, his hands digging into your hips so hard he'd probably leave bruises.
You gasped, your rhythm faltering as you felt the torrent of semen filling you. It leaked out around his cock, dripping onto the sheets, your thighs, his stomach.
But Mingi wasn't done. As the aftershocks faded, a new hunger flared in his chest. He needed more. Needed to feel you come on his cock while he controlled the pace.
He flipped you onto your back before you could react, your legs falling apart as he hovered over you. His cock was still hard, still slick with his cum and your wetness. He lined himself up and slammed back inside you, a guttural curse ripping from his throat.
"Oh God," you whimpered, your nails digging into his shoulders. "Mingi–"
He didn't answer with words. He fucked you hard, deep, each stroke driving his cock into your sopping cunt. The bed creaked beneath you. Your moans filled the room. He leaned down to kiss you, swallowing your sounds as he pounded into you. Your nails left lines of red down his back.
He could feel your walls clenching around him, hear your breath hitching. You were close, so close, and he wanted to see you fall apart.
"Come for me," he growled against your ear, his fingers trailing down to rub firm circles against your clit, causing your back to arch further into his chest. "Come on my cock."
That was all it took. Your body arched, a sharp cry escaping your lips as your orgasm crashed over you. Your pussy milked him, squeezing and fluttering, and Mingi groaned, burying his face in your neck as he came again — a second, weaker orgasm that still spilt another hot pulse of cum into you.
When it was over, he collapsed beside you, both of you panting, sweaty, tangled in each other. The sheets were a mess, soaked with sweat and cum. He stared at the ceiling, his heart hammering.
After a long silence, you spoke. "Mingi?"
"Yeah?"
"That was insane. Where the hell did you learn to fuck like that?"
He pushed himself up on one elbow, looking at you. A nervous laugh escaped him. "I, uh... didn't."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, that was my first time."
Your eyes went wide. "What? No way. That was your first time?"
He nodded, feeling heat rise to his cheeks. "I'm a virgin. Or, I guess, was a virgin."
You stared at him, then burst out laughing — not mocking, but genuine, surprised laughter. "Holy shit. You're kidding me."
"I'm not."
"Mingi– You let me take your virginity for a study session, and you fuck like that?" You reached out, running a hand through his damp hair. "You're a natural, I guess."
note: very loosely inspired by Eric Benét's Chocolate Legs and Beyoncé's Naughty Girl whilst writing this. i probably misrepresented American colleges (sorry Americans) and used wrong football terms, i am not knowledgeable on the sport.
reader is mentioned to be black, British and tatted, this is a VERY self-indulgent fic lol. i needed a Cameron Cade fic after finally watching HIM. Tyriq Withers is my lil man of the year, i fear.
summary: Cameron Cade relentlessly pursues the new girl, a transfer student, with bold declarations and unapologetic desire. Despite their push and pull dynamic, she struggles to resist his advances. Cameron's confidence and raw hunger push her boundaries, leaving her torn between her usual defiance and total surrender.
pairing: Cameron Cade x f!reader
warnings: smut, porn with plot, p in v, oral (f receiving), virgin reader, reader gets bent up in different ways
word count: 8693
part one // part two
The crisp autumn air on the sprawling campus of Eldridge University carried the faint scent of fallen leaves and distant cafeteria food, a quintessential American college vibe that screamed freedom from family, parties, and, for some, fleeting romances. Eldridge was one of those mid-tier schools in the county, where the football team was king, and the stadium lights burned brighter than the academic ambitions of most undergrads.
Cameron Cade dominated that world. He was a walking wall of muscle, broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, legs like pistons from years of sprints and tackles. His hair was cropped short, jaw sharp enough to cut glass, and those green eyes? They could melt panties from across a lecture hall. As the star quarterback, he had girls and a couple of guys throwing themselves at him after every game, but Cameron's focus was laser-sharp on one person. The new transfer from the UK.
You'd arrived mid-term, a vision of curves that turn heads without trying. Plus-size in all the best ways — full hips that swayed with confidence, a soft belly you carried like a badge of honour, heavy breasts straining against your tops, and thighs that could crush a man's resolve. Your dark skin glowed under the fluorescent lights of the dorms, tight curls framing a face with high cheekbones, full lips, and eyes that sparkled with mischief.
As a new transfer student, you had only been at this university for a few weeks, but already, you'd learnt the rhythms of the place; the way the cafeteria smelled like hot burnt coffee and overcooked fries, the way the science building's air conditioning hummed just a little too loud.
It started innocently enough, or as innocently as things got with him. You were crossing the quad after your next class, backpack slung over one shoulder, when his voice boomed behind you. "Hey, sugar! Wait up!" American as apple pie, that drawl of his, all confidence and charm.
You didn't stop, but your lips quirked.
Bloody hell, him again.
"What now, Cade? Got another lame pickup line?"
He jogged to catch up, falling into step beside you, his long legs making it effortless. Towering over you, he grinned down, that dimple flashing. "Lame? Nah, babe. These are gold. Like, 'If you were a football, I'd never fumble you.' See? Smooth."
You snorted, rolling your eyes but not hiding the amusement. "Smooth as sandpaper, more like. Go bother one of your mates, or I'm sure there's a cheerleader who is more than happy to deal with you. I'm sure they're queuing up for a go with the big man on campus." Your accent clipped the words, making 'mates' sound exotic to his ears.
"Cheerleaders? Boring. They all want the same thing — trophy arm candy. You? You're a challenge, queen. And I like winning." He bumped your shoulder lightly with his, the contact sending a spark up your arm, you tried to ignore.
"Challenge? Please. I'm not a game, giant. And the nicknames? Save 'em for someone who cares." But you didn't pull away, letting him walk you to the student union.
It was like this every time — flirty banter, push-and-pull. He'd corner you after classes, 'accidentally' sitting next to you in the library, and DM you memes at odd hours. You sassed back, deflected, but deep down, the attention thrilled your heart. No one had ever chased you like this, made you feel seen beyond your curves.
The late afternoon sun slanted through the campus quad, painting the red brick pathways in gold as students shuffled between classes. Their laughter and chatter weaving through the warm air.
You adjusted the strap of your backpack, your warm brown skin glistening with a faint sheen of sweat from the unseasonable heat.
The way Cameron Cade seemed to materialise wherever you went, his cocky smile and confident demeanour in tow.
You didn't need to turn around to know he was there. The weight of his gaze felt like it was a physical thing, pressing between your shoulder blades like a hand.
You exhaled through your nose, rolling your eyes before you opened your mouth to acknowledge the quarterback. "You're blocking the bloody pathway, you know."
A low chuckle rumbled behind you, deep and smooth, like warm honey poured over gravel. "Nah, baby girl, I'm improving it." Cameron's voice was all lazy confidence, the kind of drawl in his words that made it sound like he was already struggling not to smile before the words had even left his mouth. You could practically hear the smirk in it.
"You walkin' to the lab again, right? Lemme carry that for you." A large hand — tan, a slight piece of paler skin from his fitness tracker on his wrist, veins tracing up the forearm, fingers, thick and calloused from years of gripping footballs — reached for your bag.
You sidestepped before he could touch it, shooting him a look over your shoulder. His height was obscene, really.
Six-foot-five of sheer, arrogant muscle, all broad shoulders and slightly narrow hips, his football jersey stretched tight over a chest that looked like it had been carved from oak.
The late sun caught the gold in his hazel eyes, made them gleam like a predator who'd already decided on their next meal.
"I've got it, thanks," you objected, dragging out the word like you were pulling gum. "And I've told you before, I am not your baby girl."
"Mmm, but you could be." He grinned as he fell into step beside you, long legs eating up the distance effortlessly. The scent of him — clean sweat, leather, and something faintly citrusy — drifted over, and you hated how your pulse kicked up a notch at his proximity.
"What's the British word for it? Pet? Darling?" He teased, a fake, poorly executed British accent leaving his lips before his voice dropped, roughening at the edges. "Love?" A lazy smirk graced his face as he watched you roll your eyes.
You scoffed, but the heat crawling up your neck betrayed your external reactions. "Yeah, you are intolerable." You mumbled.
"And yet," he murmured, close enough now that his breath ghosted over the shell of your ear, "you haven't told me to piss off yet."
Your fingers twitched around your bag strap. You should tell him to piss off. You should walk faster, lose him in the crowd, pretend you didn't notice the way his biceps flexed when he crossed his arms, or howw his jawline could cut glass, or the fact that he'd been everywhere since you first arrived on campus — leaning against the wall outside of your first lecture, "accidentally" bumping into your in the cafeteria line, waiting by your locker with some terrible pick-up line that somehow still made you lips twitch.
You wasn't stupid. You knew what he wanted.
Hell, half the campus probably knew what he wanted.
Cameron Cade wasn't a man known for lacking options. So why you?
The science building loomed ahead, its glass doors reflecting the orange-streaked sky. Lena stopped short of the entrance, turning to face him. "What's your game, huh? You've got cheerleaders and half the campus throwing themselves at you. Why waste your time?"
Cameron's grin didn't falter, but something flickered in his eyes — something sharper, more intent. He stepped closer, close enough that you had to tilt your head back to hold his gaze.
His fingers brushed a loose curl away from your temple, the callouses on his skin catching slightly as he looked down at you. "Maybe I like a challenge."
"Or maybe you've got a fetish for fat girls," you shot back, the words out before you could stop them. The second they hung in the air, you wanted to snatch them back.
Fuck.
You weren't ashamed, not really, but the way his expression darkened, the way his thumb traced the curve of your cheekbone like he was memorising you, made your stomach twist.
"Watch your mouth," he murmured, voice low and rough. His hand dropped to hover around your waist before his fingers splayed wide over the soft swell of your hips. "Baby, you are thick and fine. And you know what I like about thick?" His grip tightened just enough to pull you flush against him, the hard ridges of his abs pressing against your stomach.
Your breath hitched. "I like that I can grip you. You're not gonna break." His lips brushed the corner of your cheek before he pulled away, his words a growl. "I like that you've got room for me to play."
A shiver ran down your spine at the feeling of the puff of warm air he exhaled. His proximity clouded your mind as your breasts brushed against his solid chest through the thin fabric of your crop top.
You should push him away. You should. But the way he was looking at you, like you were the only thing in the world worth hunger, worth patience, made your knees weak.
"You're arrogant," you uttered.
"And you're wet," he countered, one of his hands sliding down to just about your arse, fingers teasing against the band of your denim skirt. "Admit it. You like it when I talk to you like this."
Your nails dug into his palms. "Nigga, please. I haven't let you do a damn thing."
Cameron's laugh was dark, triumphant. "Yet." He leaned in, his lips grazing your earlobe. "But you will."
A group of students spilt out of the building, their laughter snapping the tension like a rubber band. You jerked back, your face burning, thanking the Gods for your melaninated skin. Cameron didn't even blink, just separated and adjusted himself with a slow, deliberate drag of his hand before winking at you. "See you tomorrow, baby girl."
You watched him saunter off, all easy swagger and arrogance, before you let out a shaky breath to clear your mind from your racing thoughts.
Fucking hell.
You were in trouble.
You were queuing for a sandwich, balancing your tray with one hand while scrolling through your phone with the other, when Cameron slid in behind you, his massive frame blocking the line like a human eclipse. "Hey, sugar. Fancy seeing you here. What's a girl like you doing in a place like this?"
You glanced over your shoulder, lips curling into a smirk as you caught sight of him in his grey hoodie, sleeves pushed up to show off those annoyingly delicious forearms.
"A girl like me? Eating, Cade. What does it look like? And back up, personal space, yeah?" You spoke, moving your hand to shoo him away.
He chuckled, low and rumbling, leaning in just enough to invade that space without touching. "Personal space? With you, that's impossible. You're taking up all the air in here." His eyes dipped briefly to the vine tattoo peeking from your sleeve, and he nodded at it. "Nice ink. Roses? Fitting — thorny and beautiful."
You rolled your eyes but felt a flush creep up your neck. "Flattery from the jock squad. Original. Grab your slop and sod off." British accent clipping the words, making 'sod off' sound almost playful. You grabbed your sandwich of choice and turned, but he followed, plopping his tray down across from you at a corner table without invitation.
"Can't. Starving, and the company's too good." He unwrapped his burger, taking a massive bite while watching you. You picked at your chips. Crisps, she'd call them. He noted mentally. As you tried to ignore how his knee brushed yours under the table. "So, lit class going okay? Heard Professor Hale's a demon."
"Demon? More like a bloody bore. But yeah, surviving." You met his gaze, challenging. "Why the interest, giant? Plenty of birds around here flapping their lashes at you."
He swallowed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he looked at you with that look of amusement he gets when you revert to your usual slang.
"Birds? Cute word. But they're not you, baby. You've got fire. That sass? It's hot." He reached across, boldly tracing a finger along the edge of your constellation tattoo on your collarbone. "Stars, huh? Dreaming big?"
You snatched his arm away, but not before a shiver ran through you, your collarbone tingling from his touch. "Hands to yourself, Cade. And yes, bigger than your ego, at least." Laughter bubbled up, and you shoved a chip at him. "Here, choke on that."
He caught it in his mouth, grinning like he'd won a touchdown. "See? We're bonding." The flirtation lingered through the meal, him stealing more crisps, you swatting his hand, until you checked your phone, noting it was almost time for your scheduled lab time. As you stood, he rose too, towering over you. "Walk you to class?"
"Piss off."
But you let him, your shoulders bumping as you wove through the crowd, the push-pull already setting the tone.
A few days later, it was your locker in the humanities hall, a dented metal thing you'd claimed with stickers from your favourite artists, British and otherwise.
You were rummaging for your bio notebook, curls falling over your face, when a shadow fell across the door. Cameron leaned against the adjacent locker, arms crossed, that cocky smile in place. "Miss me, queen?"
You straightened, slamming the locker with a clang. "Bloody hell, we've resorted to stalking now? What do you want, a medal for persistence?"
He pushed off the wall, closing the distance, his height making you tilt your head up. "Nah, just a smile. Or maybe your number — again. Come on, baby girl, one date. I'll even let you pick the flick."
Your full lips pursed, but your eyes danced. The surface piercings on your lower back grazed your jeans as you shifted.
"Date? With you? I'd sooner snog a frog. And I've told you my number —use it for emergencies, like ego checks."
He laughed, reaching past you to 'adjust' a sticker on your locker door, his arm brushing your side. Close enough to smell his soap—clean, masculine.
"Frog? Harsh. But I'd turn into a prince for you." His voice dropped. "Seriously, sweetheart, give me a shot. I see you, all of you. Curves, tats, that accent? Killer."
You felt exposed under his gaze, nerves fluttering, but you held firm, poking his chest — hard as rock. "See me? Or see a conquest? Sod off, Cade." You shouldered your bag and walked away, hips swaying, knowing his eyes followed. He called after you, "One day, sugar. You'll cave!"
Another time, post-game tailgate in the parking lot—music blaring from truck beds, grills smoking—you were chatting with dorm mates when he sauntered over, still in his pads minus the helmet, sweat glistening on his neck. "Queen! You watched the slaughter?"
You turned, arms crossed under your breasts. "Slaughter? Your lot barely scraped a win. Congrats, I suppose."
He pulled you aside, away from the crowd, hands on your hips lightly. "Scraped? I threw for 300 yards. Come to the after-party—celebrate with the champ."
Your pulse jumped at his touch, piercings shifting as you twisted. "Champ? More like a chancer. And no—got revising."
"Revising? Boring. Live a little, Love." His thumb grazed your hip bone, near where your shirt met your jeans. "With me."
"Tempting," you admitted, sass fading. "But not tonight."
He sighed, releasing you. "You're killing me slow, Duchess." But he winked, jogging back to his teammates, leaving your thighs clenched.
The push-pull wore on your resolve.
Texts flew during late nights.
Menace 😈: Can't sleep. Thinking of that accent.
Love 🇬🇧: Go run laps, giant.
Calls during study breaks: "Tell me about London, Sugar."
You'd sass, but share bits— rainy streets, your secondary school experiences, getting caught sneaking off with your friends to your favourite fish and chips place mid-classes, your tattoos' stories. The vine for your mum's garden, stars for lost dreams.
The next day, the cafeteria was a wall of noise.
Clattering trays, overlapping conversations and the occasional burst of laughter.
You sat at your usual table by the window, picking at a sad looking salad and a small plate of chips while you scrolled through your phone. You had just taken a bite of a rubbery tomato when a shadow fell over you.
"You eatin' that?" Cameron's voice was thick with disbelief. He plopped down across from you on the circular table, his tray groaning under the weight of two burgers, a mountain of chips, and what looked like an entire chocolate cake.
You glared across the table at him. "Not all of us need to consume our body weight in grease to function."
He grinned, unfazed, and stole a chip from your plate despite having a pile of his own. "Baby, you could consume your body weight in grease and still look like sin." His eyes flicked down to your cleavage, barely contained by the snug V-neck of your top. "Speakin' of..." His finger traced a lazy circle in the air over the ink peeking out from under your sleeve — a delicate black rose wrapped around a thorned vine. "You got more of those?"
Your fork stilled. "Maybe." You tease, looking back down at your salad.
"Where?" He quizzed, shuffling closer to your side of the table. His arms flexing as he shifted to move his tray closer.
You arched a brow. "Wouldn't you like to know."
His grin turned razor-sharp. "Oh, I will know. Sooner or later." He leaned forward, elbows on the table, the movement pulling his shirt tight over his chest. "You got any I can't see?" His arm extends, knuckles grazing the waistband of your high-waisted jeans, just above the swell of your stomach.
Your breath hitched. The cafeteria noise faded into a dull roar. “That… is none of your business.”
“It will be.” His voice was a promise, rough and sure. “I’m gonna have you bent over my bed, that pretty ass in the air, and I’m gonna find every single one.” His thumb hooked into the belt loop of your jeans, tugging you just an inch closer. “Then I’m gonna lick ‘em." He stated, like he had just said the sky was blue, pink tongue peaking out to wet his lips as he kept his eyes on you.
A pulse throbbed between your thighs at his words. You swallowed hard. "You are delusional."
"And you are flustered." His laugh was a low, knowing sound. "Tell me, love — you ever been with a man who knows to do with a body like yours?"
The question hit you like a punch to the gut.
You looked away, deciding the view of rushing students out of the window was better than his intense stare. Your fingers twisted in your napkin. "That's none—"
"Yeah, that's what I thought." He interrupted. His hands slid over yours, calloused and warm. "You're untouched, aren't you? All that sass, all that fire, and no one's ever earned it, have they?" His thumb stroked the inside of your wrist, slow and deliberate as he maintained eye contact. A flash of shock passed through your face at his direct and vulgar question. "I'm gonna be the first. And when I'm done, you won't even remember what it was like before me." He states confidently.
You yanked your hand back, your heart hammering. "You're insufferable." You spit.
Cameron's smile was wide, all teeth with a giddy look in his eyes. "And you're mine. Just give in." He stood, grabbing his tray. "See you by your locker, love." He says as he walks over to a table full of his teammates.
You watched him go, the confident roll of his shoulders, the way his jeans clung to his ass, and hated how wet you were. Hated how much you wanted him to be right.
As Cameron sat down, he turned back to throw you a wink as he watched you walk out.
The locker slammed shut with a metallic clang, the sound echoing down the mostly empty hallway. You exhaled, pressing your forehead against the cool metal. Classes had ended hours ago, but you had lingered in the library, avoiding the inevitable.
You should've known better.
"You're late."
Cameron's voice washed over you, deep and amused. You didn't turn around. "What can I say? I'm a busy gal, I've got things to do."
"Mmm. Like ignoring me?" His body heat radiated against your back as he stepped closer, his chest brushing your shoulders. "You think that's gonna work?"
Your fingers curled into fists. "I think that you've got plenty of other options."
"Don't care bout 'em." He muttered as he leaned down. His lips pressed to the nape of your neck, hot and open-mouthed. "Only care about you."
A faint whimper escaped your lips before you could stop it. His hands landed on your hips, thumbs digging into the soft flesh above your jeans.
"You're obsessed," you managed to utter, voice trembling.
"Damn straight." His teeth grazed your earlobee. "And you're gonna let me have you. Soon."
You turned in his grip, you back hitting the lockers at the lack of space between you.
Cameron loomed over you, his thighs all but bracketing yours, his erection thick and insistent against your stomach. His hands slid up your sides, thumb brushing against the undersides of your breasts. "Tell me to stop."
You should.
You really should.
But the words died in your throat as his fingers found the hem of your top, slipping underneath to trace the warm skin of your stomach. "Cameron—"
"That's not a no."
His mouth crashed onto yours, hungry and demanding, his tongue sweeping in to claim you. You let out a small gasp, your hands flying to his chest. But instead of pushing, your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer.
He groaned into your mouth, his hands sliding down to grip the sides of your hips, fingers splayed out against your ass, feeling him squeeze as he broke the kiss to lay a few on your neck before he returning to your lips.
"Fuck, you are perfect," he growled, breaking the kiss just long enough to press you further into the cold metal of the locker as his hands worked to slightly lift your top up, baring your waist to him. His mouth latched onto your neck, licking and sucking at the spot at the curve of your neck, teeth grazing the now sensitive flesh.
Your head fell back against the lockers with a dull thud, a low broken moan spilling out from your lips before you rolled your lips in to stop the escape of anymore sounds.
"Fuckkk, I'm gonna get addicted to hearing that."
As his lips moved to return back onto yours once again, a door slammed somewhere down the hall. Cameron froze, then pulled back with a curse, his chest heaving. Your top was still rucked up, the spot on your neck tingled, you lips slightly swolllen from his kisses and your lip gloss shining on his lips. You stared at him , a little dazed, as he adjusted himself with a pained groan.
"This isn't over," he promised, voice rough. "Next time, i'm not stopping." He presed a final kiss against your lips before he pushed away from you.
And as he walked away, leaving you trembling, chest slightly heaving and desperate, you knew — you didn't want him to.
The echo of that interrupted kiss lingered on your lips like a brand, a searing reminder of how close you'd come to losing control.
You pulled your backpack tighter against your shoulders, navigating the crowded hallway with your eyes fixed forward, refusing to look back at the locker where Cameron still stood. You knew that if you gave him an inch, he wouldn't just take a mile, he would take a marathon. And you were terrified of just how much you wanted to let him.
Over the next few weeks, you erected a fortress of indifference.
You dodged his texts, took the loww way to lecture halls to avoid the wuad, and kept your headphones on even when they weren't playing music.
But Cameron didn't retreat; he escalated.
His presence became a constant hum in the background of your life. He'd appear by your side as you exited the library, falling into step with an easy, predatory grace.
"You're ignoring me." He asserted, his voice low enough that only you could hear, the vibration of it skating down your spine.
"I'm busy, Cameron," you snapped, not breaking your stride.
"Busy being beautiful," he countered, undettered by your response. His. green eyes tracking the sway of your hips with a hunger that made your skin flush. He didn't care about the extra weight you carried; if anything, the way he looked at you suggested he wanted to sink his teeth into it.
Despite your resistance, the lines began to blur. He started waiting for you after your late classes, insisting on walking you to your accommodation. "For safety purposes only." He'd say each time.
The first time, you argues. The second time, you sighed and let him. By the third time, you found yourself waiting for the familiar silhouette of his broad shoulders against the streetlights.
He never tried to kiss you again, but the tension was a living thing between the two of you, thick and suffocating.
Then came the invitations to the games. You told yourself that you were just supporting the university. That it had nothing to do with the way he looked in that jersey, the fabric stretched tight over his massive chest and the number on his back blazing like a warning.
You sat in the stands, surrounded by cheering students and parents, your eyes glued to number 7. When he scored a touchdown, and his teammates rushed to him, he didn't look at them or the cheerleaders shouting their chants; he looked up into the crowd, found you instantly, and pointed a finger in your direction, which felt more possessive than celebratory.
Cameron could have anyone. That was a fact.
You checked your message from your friend, double checking the address before stepping into the packed house hosting the celebratory party after the university's football team won a game — Cameron scoring the winning touchdown — and was immediately hit with the smell of alcohol, weed and sweat from the dancing bodies on the makeshift dance floor. The crowd was a sea of bodies, and yet you had spotted Cameron a lot quicker than you would have liked. A group of people surrounding him like he had an undefiable gravity defying pull to him.
He stood in the living room, surrounded by a throng of admirers. He held a red solo cup in one hand, his football jersey strained tight over his broad shoulders. He was laughing at something, his head thrown back, and you felt an unfamiliar tightening in your chest. Around him, a gaggle of girls vied for his attention — touching his arm, flipping their hair, hanging onto his every word.
You weaved through the mass of people, making your way towards the group of international students you had befriended in your earlier days as a transfer student. They greeted you with a hug before pouring you a drink into a red solo cup as you stood at the edge of the group, nursing your drink as you integrated yourself into their previous conversation surrounding the game.
Cameron, like a magician, managed to spot you as you disappeared into the kitchen, but was unable to separate himself from his friends for another 20 minutes before he made his way over to you, navigating through bodies pulsing to the bass of the music.
"Dance with me, Duchess?"
You arched a brow, taking a slip from your cup as you looked up at him. "Duchess? Really? You're really scraping the barrel now." You quip, watching as he leans on the counter beside you. "And no, I'm not dancing. Go shake your arse elsewhere.
"Arse?" His nose crinkled with amusement at your English pronunciation. "Cute. But seriously, come onnn, love. One song." He held out a hand, palm up, waiting.
You eyed it like he had handed you a plate of poison, then looked back at him. Sweat-damp jersey clinging to his pecs, jeans that would be baggier on someone smaller hugging his thick thigh.
He looked effortlessly bloody tempting.
"One dance. Then you piss off." You placed your hand in his.
He grinned before he pulled you into the throng, one massive hand on your waist, the other clasping yours. You noticed immediately that you just seemed to fit against him perfectly, your curves moulding to his hard, muscular frame as they swayed. His breath was hot on your ear. "See? Not so bad. You move like sin, baby."
"Sin? Please, flattery won't get you anywhere," you murmured, but you pressed closer, feeling the head of his body. His cock stirred against your stomach, subtle, but there, and you pulled back a little with a smirk. "Down, boy. Told you, just dancing."
He groaned playfully, pulling his bottom lip into his mouth as he bit it. "Tease." He smiled his lazy grin. "You're killing me, love."
For weeks, the flirting escalated randomly, popping up like plot twists in your day. One crisp morning, as you walked to the chem lab across the quad — boots crunching leaves, breath fogging in the chill — Cameron fell into step beside you, backpack slung over one shoulder like it weighed nothing. "Morning, Duchess. Heading to blow shit up?"
You side-eyed him, pulling your coat tighter around your curves. "It's lab, Cade, not demolition derby." You rolled your eyes. "And you? Skipping practice to harass transfers?"
"Harass? This is charm, baby." He matched your pace, his long legs making it easy. The path narrowed, forcing the two of you closer; his hand steadied your elbow when you slipped on a wet leaf. "Whoa—got you."
"Easy there, hero." But you didn't pull away immediately, feeling the warmth of his palm through your sleeve, near the rose tattoo. "What's your game today? Pickup line o'clock?"
He grinned, releasing you but staying close. "Alright, here's one: Are you a lab experiment? 'Cause you've got all my elements reacting."
You groaned, but laughed — a real one, echoing off the buildings. "That's abysmal. Even for you. Try harder, giant."
"Challenge accepted." As the two of you reached the science building, he held the door, bowing mockingly. "After you, my queen. Text me how the explosions go?"
You shook your head, slipping inside. "Dream on." But later, in the lab, goggles on, testing the reaction of a chemical on your sample material, you caught yourself smiling at your phone when his meme popped up: a cartoon chemist with a heart-eyed explosion.
It wasn't just planned spots; he ambushed you everywhere. In the library stacks one afternoon, your fingers trailing spines for a poetry book, he appeared around the corner, holding two coffees. "Figured you needed fuel, Sugar. Decaf, two sugars, with a dash of milk, right?"
You blinked, taking it warily. "How'd you– okay, definitely a stalker."
"Talent." He hummed as he leaned against the shelf, sipping his. The quiet space amplified his voice. "Poetry? Deep. Read me something?"
"Bugger off." But you flipped open the book, reciting a line from Keats in your lilting accent: "A thing of beauty is a joy forever."
His eyes heated. "Damn. That's you." He stepped closer, voice low. "Your voice... does things to me."
Heart racing, you closed the book with a sharp flick of your wrist. "Flirt elsewhere, Cade. Some of us study." You brushed past, coffee warm in your hand, the constellation tattoo itching like it wanted attention.
One evening in the student union arcade — neon lights flashing, Pac-Man beeps — you were at the claw machine, cursing as it dropped your prize.
Cameron appeared, quarters in hand. "Let the pro show you how."
"Pro? At stuffed animals?" You snorted but stepped aside, watching his focus. His tongue poking cheek as he manoeuvred. Success: a plush bear dropped. He handed it over.
"For you, queen."
You hugged it, smirking. "Bribery. Cute."
Your fingers tangled briefly, sparks flying.
"Date yet?" He pressed.
"Persistent bugger." You leaned in, whispering, "Maybe soon."
That 'maybe' fueled him.
The night everything changed was crisp and smelled of impending rain. The stadium lights hummed, the crowd roaring as the fame ended in another crushing victory. You lingered by the exit gate, telling yourself you just wanted to avoid the rush of people leaving. You saw him before he saw you, fresh from the locker room, the remaining droplets of water dripping down the side of his face, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder as he dapped up his teammates. When he spotted you, a slow, dangerous grin spread across your face.
He didn't ask. He just walked up, invading your space. The faint smell of remaining sweat from his rushed shower, expensive cologne, and raw masculinity washing over you.
"Coming back to my place?" He asked, his voice roughened from the adrenaline and shouts of commands during the game. "The team is going to a bar, but I want to celebrate with you."
You opened your mouth to refuse. To cite an early morning or an upcoming assignment deadline, but the words died in your throat. The way he looked at you, like you were a feast he's been starving for, dismantled your defenses. You thought you were safe, that you could handle a drink at his, that you were in control.
"Okay," you heard yourself whisper before you could take it back.
His apartment was off-campus, a sleek, modern space that screamed money and bachelorhood. The moment the door clicked shut behind him, the air in the room suddenly got heavy.
He dropped his bag in the hallway, kicking his shoes off. You followed him, removing your sneakers and place your rucksack next to his.
You trailed behind him as he walked further into the open-plan flat, watching as he dropped his keys onto the counter without looking, glancing back at your approaching frame instead. "You sure you don't wanna be at the bar?" He quizzed, as his arms crossed around his hips to lift his grey hoodie, giving you a great view of his v-lines and the dark trail of hair.
He watched with a smirk as he caught you staring befoer your eyes snapped back up to his face. "See something you like?" He teases, dropping his hoodie on the arm of the black loveseat as you rolled your eyes.
"Don't let it get to your head." You teased as you followed him to his kitchen. "And I didn't realise I needed your team to be shown a good time.
You watched as the corner of his mouth twitched. There it was. One of you pushed, the other reacted. The same back and forth you'd been doing for weeks. "Now I ain't say alla that."
"No," you said, slipping your jacket off and draping it over the same chair, "it felt implied."
He rolled his eyes, a short huff escaping his lips as he moved past you into the kitchen. "You reading too much into my words, baby. Give me the chance, I know I can show you a real good time."
"Maybe Jayson's at the pub." You continued, pretending you didn't hear the way his voice dropped, following closely behind him.
"Stop playing ma, y'know he wouldn't know what to do with a girl like you." He stepped closer to you, your back hitting the counter, his hands placing themselves on the granite counter, trapping you against him as he leaned down to be eye level with you.
"Hmm, I don't know, you seen those arms? Lord have mercy." You pressed, voice coming out with a lighter lilt to it, raising a manicured hand to fan yourself as you pretended to swoon over his teammate.
He exhaled a quiet laugh at your comment, shaking head as he remained quiet for a second before he took a step back and raised his arm past you towards a cabinet before opening it and taking out a box of popcorn kernels. His sturdy chest pressing flush against you.
He was so close, you could feel every ridge of toned muscle through his shirt.
For a second, neither of you moved before he spoke.
"And for that, when I finally get to hit, imma remember that comment." He mused, his usual confidence radiating off him as the tension in the air crackled.
"If."
"Nah, trust. When." He drawled, looking down at you before he moved past you whilst popping open the box and taking out two bags of popcorn like nothing had happened. He cleared his throat as you watched him move around his kitchen with ease.
"Go pick a movie, imma finish making the popcorn. You want a drink?" He quizzes, as if he hadn't just expressed the urge to sleep with you, sparing you a glance to see you nod.
He busied himself with the microwave, but he could feel your gaze on him and it made him feel like everything felt...
Louder.
The hum of the appliance. The clink of the glasses when he opened another cabinet and reached for one. His own heartbeat, still not fully down from the match and your flirting.
"You're gonna trust me to pick? What if I've got terrible taste."
"I already know you do."
You rolled your eyes, but there was a hint of a smile pulling at your lips. "Rude."
"Honest." He countered.
"And just for that little comment, we're going to be watching Angus, Thongs and Perfect Snogging."
"I have no idea what you just said. Is this what you Brits name things?" He laughs, turning and leaning against the counter, arms bent to support his weight.
"I will accept no slander, it's a British classic!" You argued, but your tone was too merry for someone defending their favourite movie.
"You played well today," you noted after a moment.
It wasn't teasing this time.
He glanced at you, a little thrown off. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." you shrugged, voice softer now. "You don't always let yourself enjoy it, though."
He shifted, leaning back, hip resting against the counter, arms folding across his chest causing his muscles to flex slightly. "You always analysing me like that?"
"Only when you're being avoidantly obvious."
He huffed, but didn't look away. "And what am I being right now?"
Your eyes kept their gaze locked onto his. "Simply obvious."
The microwave beeped, sharp and sudden, but neither of them moved to stop it yet, eyes still locked onto each other.
"And here I thought I was hiding it well." He jested, but didn't look away. He pushed off the counter slowly, closing the space between the two of you without really deciding to, his voice dropping to a sultry tone. "You think I invited you here to avoid something?"
You held his gaze, unflinching, even as the space between you shrank to almost nothing. The question lingered there, heavier than the air around you.
"That depends," you said slowly, tilting your head just slightly. "Are you trying to?"
For a moment, the confidence he wore so easily flickered — not gone, just... thinner. More real.
He let out a quiet breath through his nose, glancing away for the briefest second before looking back at you. "You always do that."
"Do what?"
"Make simple things harder."
You let out a soft huff of amusement, the shift broke something in the moment — not entirely, but enough to let you breathe again. "Maybe things aren't supposed to be simple," you replied.
He didn't give you time to overthink, to worry about your softness or your curves. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him, leaving you trapped between his body and cold granite. "You have no idea how hard it's been to wait," he growled.
You gasped as he lifted you effortlessly, setting you down on the hard surface as if you weighed nothing at all. "Cameron," you breathed, your hands reaching out to grip the fabric covering his shoulders.
"Shut up and kiss me," he commanded, crashing his lips against yours. An interrupted gargle left your glossed lips as his left hand slid up, cupping the back of your neck as he all but consumed the air in your lungs.
His tongue left his mouth, swiping at your bottom lip wordlessly asking for permission before he delved into your mouth. This wasn't the tentative, interrupted kiss from the hallway.
This was a conquest.
Dominating.
Tasting.
Claiming.
His hands roamed your body, squeezing your thick thighs, dragging his fingers over the fabric of your crop top to cup your heavy breasts. You moaned into his mouth, your hips bucking involuntarily against the hard ridge of his cock straining against his jeans.
He broke the kiss long enough to pull your crop top up and over your head, tossing it aside. His eyes raked over your dark brown skin, taking in the array of hidden tattoos gracing your skin, the bats on your wrist, the soft swell of your stomach.
"Fuck," he groaned, your name sounding like absolute sin on his lips. He dipped his head to your chest and took a nipple into his mouth, suck hard enough to make you cry out, back arching towards his mouth as your hand moved from his shoulder to the back of his head. "You're perfect."
He stripped you out of your baggy jeans with urgent, rough movements, throwing them somewhere behind him before he ran his hands up your thighs, fingers teasing the material of your underwear. He stepped back a second and stared at you like you were the finest piece of art he had ever seen. "I can't believe you've been depriving me of this body." He groaned, a tone of reverence and hunger lacing his words as he returned his lips to yours.
As Cameron's hands roamed your body, a faint moan left your lips. His own swallowing the sound down before he detached, lips sliding down, placing kisses down to your neck. The sighs and sounds leaving your mouth came out undisrupted as his teeth bit down on the spot behind your ear, sucking and licking at it until it became a sore spot, a light purple dusting the area.
His fingers hooked around the waistband of your panties, sliding them down slowly, his mouth detached from your skin as his eyes followed his hands as they trailed down your thighs. Your hands went to the counter behind you, lifting your hips a little, helping him as much as your clouded mind could. He looked at you as you sat bare on the counter.
His gaze burned into you, dark and possessive, as he took in every inch of your exposed body. The bats tattooed on your wrist seemed to flutter under his scrutiny, your dark brown skin glowing under the dim light of the room. Your thighs closed under the strength of his stare, feeling exposed as you sat with just your bra on. "Don't hide from me", he ordered.
Cameron's breath came heavy, his chest rising and falling as he stepped closer, his hands gripping your thighs firmly, spreading them apart with deliberate force.
"Spread for me," he growled, his voice low and commanding, leaving no room for hesitation. You obeyed, your legs parting wider on the cool counter, exposing your slick pussy to his hungry eyes. A shiver ran through you, the air teasing your wet folds, but it was his stare that made your core clench in anticipation.
Cameron dropped to his knees without a word, his broad shoulders pushing your thighs further open. His fingers dug into your soft flesh, holding you in place as he leaned in, his hot breath ghosting over your clit. "Look at this pretty pussy," he murmured, his tone reverent yet feral. "All wet and ready for me. You've been hiding this from me too long."
Before you could respond, his mouth descended, tongue flicking out to trace a slow, firm line along your slit. You gasped, your head falling back against the cabinets, fingers clutching the edge of the counter for support.
"Cameron, please," you begged, not sure if you wanted him to stop or never stop.
He didn't tease for long — Cameron's dominance meant he took what he wanted. He ate your pussy like a man starved, his tongue flicking your clit, his lips sucking your folds, devouring your wetness. You gripped his shoulders, your fingernails digging into the muscle, overwhelmed by the intensity. His lips sealed around your clit, sucking hard, the pressure sending jolts of pleasure straight to your spine. Your hips jerked forward, grinding against his face instinctively.
"That's it," he rumbled against your skin, the vibration making you whimper. His tongue delved deeper, thrusting into your entrance, tasting your arousal with greedy laps. One hand slid up your thigh, two thick fingers pushing inside you without warning, stretching your walls as he curled them against that sensitive spot deep within. You cried out, your body arching, the bats on your wrist flexing as your hands flew to his hair, tugging at the strands to pull him closer.
He fucked you with his fingers relentlessly, pumping in and out, slick sounds filling the air as your juices coated his hand. His mouth never stopped—sucking, licking, nipping at your swollen clit until your thighs trembled around his head. "Cum for me," he ordered, his free hand squeezing your ass, pulling you tighter against his devouring mouth. The command pushed you over the edge; your pussy clenched around his fingers, waves of ecstasy crashing through you as you shattered, moaning his name like a prayer.
Cameron didn't let up, drawing out your orgasm until you were gasping, oversensitive and shaking. Only then did he pull back, his lips glistening with your essence, a smug grin curling them as he rose to his feet. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes locked on yours. "Good girl. But we're not done. Not by a long shot."
His hands went to his belt, unbuckling it with swift, practised motions. The clink of metal echoed in the intimate space, heightening the tension. He tore his jersey off. His body was a masterpiece of sculpted muscle, tan skin glistening in the low light. He shucked his jeans and boxers, and his cock sprang free — thick, long, and angry with need. Your eyes widened, a spike of fear mingling with your arousal.
Pre-cum beaded at the tip, and he stroked himself once, twice, letting you see the full length of him. "You want this?" he asked, though it wasn't really a question. His dominance demanded your surrender.
He grabbed your hips, pulling you to the edge of the counter. "You can take it," he said, reading your mind.
You nodded, breathless, your eyes fixed on his cock as desire pooled anew in your belly. "Yes, Cameron. Please." He stepped between your legs, the head of his cock nudging your entrance, teasing your still-quivering folds.
He lined the head up with your entrance, and with a grunt, he thrust forward, burying himself to the hilt in one powerful stroke. You gasped, your body stretching to accommodate him. You cried out, fingers digging into his skin, the stretch burning deliciously as he filled you completely, your walls gripping him like a vice.
The sensation of being so full bordering on pain. He paused for a heartbeat, letting you adjust, his hands roaming to cup your plump breasts, thumbs circling your hardened nipples. Then he moved, pulling out almost fully before slamming back in, setting a brutal, claiming pace. "Look at us," he gritted out, holding your gaze. "Look how good we look together."
The counter creaked under the force, your body jolting with each deep thrust. "Fuck, you're tight," he groaned, his mouth finding your neck again, biting down as he pounded into you. Your legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his back, urging him deeper. The tattoos on your skin seemed alive under his touch, his fingers tracing the bats on your wrist as he pinned your arms above your head with one hand.
Sweat slicked your dark brown skin, mixing with his as your bodies slapped together rhythmically. He released your arms to grip your hips, angling you so his cock hit that perfect spot inside with every plunge. Pleasure built rapidly, coiling tight in your core, your moans turning to desperate pleas. "Harder," you begged, lost in the haze of passion.
Cameron obliged, his thrusts turning savage, the sound of skin on skin echoing off the walls. His other hand slipped between you, thumb rubbing firm circles on your clit, pushing you toward another climax. "Cum on my cock," he demanded, his voice rough with his own building release. "Milk me dry."
The words shattered you. Your pussy spasmed around him, orgasm ripping through you as you clenched and released, crying out his name. Your hand rushed to the back of his head as his own fell to the cabinet behind you, chest moving harshly as your breath came out ragged. He slowly pulled out and lifted you off the counter, your legs wrapping around his waist as your arms wound themselves around his neck. He carried you to the couch and sat down, pulling you on top of him.
"Need a second?" He teased lightly, thumb rubbing circles on your thigh as he watched your body shake lightly from your orgasm. You lifted your face from his neck, staring down at his features for a second.
"You are insufferable," you huffed as the corners of his mouth lifted. "No, I'm fine." You leaned forward to place a kiss on his lips.
He lifted you onto a higher kneeling position on his lap, watching as you reached in between your bodies and seated yourself back on his cock. A moan ripping through the both of you, your pussy fluttering around him, causing his head to fall back onto the couch. He let you control the rhythm for a moment — his gaze intense as he watched you use him for your own pleasure — before his hands took over, gripping your ass and slamming you down onto his dick. The sounds of skin slapping against skin filled the room, lewd and wet.
"You feel so fucking good," he groaned, burying his face in your neck, biting down hard. "So tight and wet."
He manoeuvred your body again, laying you back onto the couch cushions, throwing one of your legs over his shoulder to open you up deeper. He pounded into you, the angle hitting a spot inside you that made you see stars and gasp for air. Your body jiggled with the force of his thrusts, and instead of shame, you felt a surge of power.
He was chasing his release inside you, and you were the one giving it to him.
"Fuck, Cam, I- I'm close," you whimpered, his hand reaching down to rub your clit.
"Cum for me, love." He commanded, his rhythm becoming erratic.
Your orgasm crashed over you, a blinding wave that ripped a scream from your throat. Your pussy clenched around him, milking him, and with a guttural roar, he buried himself to the hilt and exploded. You felt the hot spurts of his cum filling you up, marking you, claiming you from the inside out.
He continues thrusting his hips through your orgasm, both of you sensitive, before he slowly stops. His head falls to your chest as you lie tangled together for a moment, chests heaving, sweat cooling on both your skin. But Cameron wasn't done. He stood up, pulling you to her feet, his cock already twitching with renewed interest.
"Shower," he said, steering you toward the bathroom. "I'm not done with you yet."
He bent you over the tiled bench in the shower, the hot water cascading over you as he took you from behind again, proving to you with every thrust that your body was exactly what he wanted—soft, strong, and capable of taking everything he had to give.
note: Part two of The Thick of It. very loosely inspired by Eric Benét's Chocolate Legs and Beyoncé's Naughty Girl whilst writing this.
i probably misrepresented American colleges (sorry Americans) and used wrong football terms, i am not knowledgeable on the sport.
no use of y/n. reader is described as black, plus-size (no real mention of physical appearance), British, and tatted.
summary: Cameron Cade has finally gotten his hands on the new girl, and he is insatiable. But what happens when she overhears some unsavoury things and judgments about her budding relationship with the star quarterback? Will they survive the heat of his fame, or will it consume them?
pairing: Cameron Cade x f!reader
warnings: fat shaming, a little angst, smut, porn with (some) plot, p in v, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex (wrapping before tapping)
word count: 6505
part one // part two
The steam from the bathroom clung to your skin like a second layer as Cameron guided you out of the shower, his grip firm on your damp waist. He didn’t bother with towels, simply walked you backwards across the hall, his mouth finding yours in a searing, open-mouthed kiss that tasted of mint and lingering heat. The backs of your knees hit the mattress, and you fell back, the duvet cool against your overheated skin. Cameron followed you down immediately, covering your body with his, the weight of him grounding and overwhelming all at once.
There was no hesitation this time, no slow build. He hooked your legs over his arms, spreading you wide, and drove into you with a groan that vibrated against your chest. The stretch was intense, a burning fullness that stole the air from your lungs. He didn't hold back, his hips snapping forward with a rhythm that was both punishing and precise.
You dug your nails into his shoulders, your head falling back as you met his thrusts, the wet slap of skin against skin filling the quiet room. The bed frame creaked in time with your movements, a rhythmic protest that matched the escalating tension coiling in your belly. When you came, it was with a sharp cry that he swallowed with his mouth, his own release following moments later, hot and pulsing deep inside you.
The frantic energy seemed to drain out of the both of you at once. Cameron collapsed onto his elbows, careful not to crush you, burying his face into the crook of your neck. For a long moment, the only sound was your ragged breathing slowing down, syncing up. Then, he shifted, rolling both of your bodies onto their sides so you faced each other.
The confidence that usually defined him had softened, his eyes tracing the lines of your face with that expression that made your chest tight. "Bet Jayson couldn't have made you cum that many times," his voice raspy and low from your previous actions. Once again, you rolled your eyes at him, lightly shoving at his slightly damp chest.
"Who?" You teased, trailing a hand across the expanse of his arm. This time, he was the one to roll his eyes, pulling you closer to him and placing a soft kiss against your temple.
He reached out, tucking a stray damp curl behind your ear, his thumb brushing over the shell of your ear. "Now who's being insufferable?" He started, a soft murmur of words as you basked in each other's presence. "You're incredible," his voice a low rumble that you felt more than heard.
He leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, then the tip of your nose, and finally your lips. It wasn't a demand, but a question, gentle and searching. You felt your defences waver. You kissed him back, your hand coming up to rest on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart. He pulled you closer, tucking your head under his chin, and for a while, the two of you just lay there, tangled in the sheets, the scent of sex and rain coming from the open window heavy in the air.
But the quiet couldn't last.
The next few days were a blur of stolen glances and lingering touches in the hallways. The push and pull remained — you rolled your eyes at his cocky grin, Cameron making snide comments about your study habits — but the resistance was crumbling. Every brush of his arm against yours sent a jolt of electricity straight to your core. You quickly realised that you two could not keep your hands off each other, the need for contact overriding your pride.
It happened three days later under the bleachers during a practice session. The air was thick with the smell of cut grass and damp earth, the shadows long and concealing. Cameron found you there, ostensibly hiding from the noise, but really waiting for him. He didn't say a word, just crowded you against the cool metal support beams, his hands sliding up your skirt to find your bare, wet pussy.
"Missed me, baby?" he whispered, his fingers sinking knuckle-deep in your warm heat.
You bit your lip to stifle a moan, your hands fumbling with his belt buckle. "Shut up and fuck me."
He freed his cock, hard and heavy, and lifted you effortlessly. You wrapped your legs around his waist, and he slid into you in one smooth stroke.
"Fuck! Cam— please." You moan, hands clutching at his jersey, your blue stiletto nails digging in through the material. It was fast and dirty; the metal of the bleachers felt cold against your back while he pounded into you, his breath hot in your ear.
Above the two of you, the stomping of cleats and the coach's whistle provided a rhythmic soundtrack to your debauchery. You came quickly, clenching around him, and he followed, pulling out just in time to spill onto your inner thigh, marking your dark skin with his cum.
The car was two days later. You were supposed to be driving to a study group, but Cameron pulled into a secluded overlook towering over the city lights. "Cam, this is not where we're supposed to be," you chided, no real protests being heard as you sat in the passenger seat, staring out at the view.
"Come 'ere." His hands reach out to grab your face and pull you into a kiss. His tongue slid into your mouth as you leaned over the dashboard, melting into the mess of the kiss.
He reclined the passenger seat, and you straddled him, the tight confines of the car forcing your bodies close. "You gon ride this dick, ma?" His hand reached down to grip your ass before he laid a firm slap against the plump skin.
The windows fogged up as you rode him, your hands braced on the roof of the car. The angle was deep, hitting a spot that made you see stars. Cameron gripped your ass, guiding your movements, his eyes locked on yours.
Above him, you rocked your hips faster, chasing your high, head lolling as your whines and moans echoed against the metal of the car. "Look at you," he gritted out, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing tight circles on the bundle of nerves. "Riding my dick like you own it."
"I- I'm close," you whimper, lowering a hand to rest beside his head as you continue your movements.
The stimulation was too much. You shattered, your walls fluttering around him as he emptied himself inside you with a guttural groan, throwing his head back against the headrest. You stayed there for a moment, foreheads pressed together, the air in the car heavy and humid.
The risk only seemed to fuel the both of you.
An empty chemistry lab became your playground the following week.
Cameron joined you in the lab, watching as you moved with ease around the benches, grabbing a beaker and a clear liquid he didn't know the name of, and watched as you poured it into the beaker set up on the tripod above an unlit Bunsen burner. His cock stirred in his grey sweatpants as he listened to you explain your method.
Next thing you knew, the smell of sulfur and sterile surfaces contrasted sharply with raw, primal need taking over an empty lab bench. Cameron bent you over the cold resin of the table, pulling down your jeans. He dropped to his knees behind you, spreading your cheeks to lap at your pussy and ass, his tongue delving deep.
"Cameron, someone could walk in," you hissed, though you pushed back against his face.
"Let them," he growled, standing up and lining his dick up with your entrance. He thrust in hard, the stools under the bench scraping loudly against the floor as your legs bucked into them from the strength of his thrusts. He reached around to cover your mouth with his hand, muffling your cries as he took you with relentless abandon. The fear of discovery mixed with the pleasure, sending you hurtling toward the edge. When you came, your knees buckled, and he had to hold you up, his own release pulsing hot inside you.
The final straw broke in your own down room. You were on the phone. to your mother back in London, trying to maintain a normal conversation about the weather and your classes, while Cameron sat on the edge of your bed, a wicked glint in his eyes. He slid off the bed and crawled under your desk, hidden from view by the table.
You tilted your head down slightly at the feeling of a warm hand wrapping around your ankle and tugging.
Keep quiet, he mouthed, moving closer as he watched your attempt at maintaining a conversation with your mum.
"So, yeah, mum, the classes are... quite intense," you finish, your voice hitching as Cameron's hands parted your knees.
You glared down at him, but he just smirked, leaning in to run his tongue along the seam of your leggings. Turning your phone to move away from your mouth as you took in a sharp inhale. You bit your knuckle, trying to focus on your mother's voice droning on about the rain in London as Cameron pulled your leggings down your thick thighs and threw them on the floor of your room, his fingers pulling the fabric of your panties aside, exposing you to the cool air, and then his mouth was on you. His lips wrap around your clit, sucking it into his mouth with ruthless precision.
"Are you alright, sweetie? You sound out of breath," your mother asked.
"I'm... No, I'm fine," you gasped, your hand reaching down and cradling the back of Cameron's head, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. "Just... running up the stairs."
Cameron hummed against your clit, the vibrations sending shockwaves through your nervous system. He slid two fingers inside you, curling them just right, while his tongue continued its assault. It was agonisingly difficult to keep your voice steady, to answer your mum's questions about your diet and your sleep schedule while your body was being expertly unravelled. The pressure built to an unbearable peak, and when you finally came, you had to bite your lip hard to keep from screaming into the receiver. You slumped against the pillow on your desk chair, your legs trembling as Cameron emerged from under the desk, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and looking entirely too pleased with himself.
"Give my love to Dad," you managed to say into the phone before hanging up, tossing the device onto the pile of books adorning your desk and pulling Cameron up for a kiss that tasted of your own arousal and rebellion.
"You are absolute trouble," you breathed, your chest still heaving as you stared down at Cameron, who was wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The taste of your own release still lingered on his lips, a testament to the chaos he had just wrought while you tried to explain your course schedule to your mother.
Cameron grinned, that cocky, lopsided expression that usually made you want to slap him, but now only made your knees weak. He stood up, leaning over your body to crowd you. His jersey, worn from practise, brushes against your bare arms. "She bought it, didn't she? 'Running up the stairs.' Classic."
"I almost had a heart attack," you scolded, though your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer rather than pushing him away. "If she heard you... or heard me..."
"But she didn't," he murmured, dipping his head to nip at the sensitive spot behind your ear. "And now you're off the hook. Unless you need another distraction?"
You rolled your eyes, but the heat pooling in your stomach betrayed you. "Shut up and kiss me."
He didn't need to be told twice. The kiss was hungry, a collision of teeth and tongues that tasted of rebellion and lingering adrenaline. Cameron lifted you effortlessly, seating you on the edge of the desk. He stepped between your thighs, his hands gripping your hips with a possessiveness that made your head spin. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him flush against you.
"You're insatiable," you gasped against his mouth as he ground his hardness against your lace-covered mound.
"Only for you," he countered, his voice dropping an octave as your fingers worked to unbutton his jeans with practised ease, your knuckles brushing against his hardened length. You were already wet, aching for him after the oral torture he'd subjected you to.
Once he freed himself from the confines of his boxers, he stroked his thick cock once before lining up with your entrance. With one sharp thrust, he buried himself inside you, causing you to cry out, your head falling back as he stretched you out. He set a punishing rhythm as you let out a string of moans and curses, filling you completely. His hips driving into you with the same urgency he had shown under the desk.
The desk squeaked beneath your rocking bodies, a rhythmic protest that matched the slap of skin against skin. "Look at me," he commanded, gripping your chin and forcing your eyes to meet his. His green eyes are dark, dilated with lust. "Who's fucking you?"
"Y- fuck, Cam. You," you moaned, your nails digging into his shoulders through the jersey. "You are, Cameron."
"Damn right," he growled, capturing your lips again as he pistoned into you. The coil of tension in your stomach tightened rapidly, snapping before you could brace for it. You came with a shudder and broken wail, your pussy clenching around him like a vice. He followed you over the edge a moment later, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he pulsed deep inside you, filling you with his cum.
For a moment, you both just stayed there, tangled together in the aftermath, the silence of the dorm room heavy around you. But reality, as always, was waiting.
Two weeks later, the dynamic shifted back to its usual push-and-pull that had started defining you two in public.
The campus was buzzing with excitement for the football team's upcoming home game, voices blurring together as you walked to your locker. As usual, Cameron's tall frame could be seen above the heads of the students walking past. "Hey, you coming to the game right?" He asks as he readjusts his gym bag full of gear.
"What? Number 7 can't play without little ol' me being there?" You teased as you pulled open the metal door, a slight grating sound following along with it. You took out the books weighing down your rucksack and placed them in the upper section of the locker, his body shifting nearby to stand closer to you.
"Ahh, you know I need my good luck charm."
A puff of air leaves you as you laugh at his words. "Well damn, now I guess I have to be there."
A wide grin graces his face. "I'll keep an eye out. I'll see you later, love." He quickly presses a kiss against your cheek before he jogs off down the hallway.
As the hours tick down to the game, you prepare to go watch the game in your dorm room. A sultry playlist echoed from your speaker around your room as you took out your hair products to attempt a new hairstyle you saw on Pinterest.
Once you had finished your hair and makeup, the time showed that you had around 45 minutes before the game started. Your phone dinged with a notification from Cameron.
Menace 😈: Come early? Need a good luck kiss from my good luck charm for it to work.
Love 🇬🇧: This what you say to your other girls?
Menace 😈: Only girl I got is you, ma, pull up. I'm in the changing rooms.
You laughed and shook your head, but stood up, checking your outfit once more and spraying your perfume before pulling on your shoes and the grey hoodie Cameron had left behind and left to meet him.
Once you reached the changing rooms, you shot him a text saying you're outside. The campus was practically empty as everyone was either already getting seats on the field's bleachers or back at their dorms getting ready for the quickly approaching game.
As you scrolled through Instagram on your phone, a voice rang out from beside you. "You came."
"Well, I couldn't be the reason our star quarterback had a bad game, now could I?" You ribbed, looking up from your phone at the sight of the man in front of you leaning against the wall beside you, as his body jolted from a low laugh.
"Exactly. I got a reputation to uphold, love." He moved closer, hand coming up to cradle your cheek as he leaned in to place a slow kiss to your glossed lips, pulling you further in as he deepened the kiss.
The two of you were lost in your own world, only broken apart at the sound of Cameron's teammates chanting and psyching themselves up. Once he pulled away, the lights in the corridor illuminated the sparkly lip gloss that transferred to his lips. "My God, you are messy." You laughed, lifting a hand to swipe your thumb across his plump lips to remove any residue.
"I could get messier." He returned, a flash of mischief running through his eyes as you rolled your eyes at his innuendo.
"Down, boy. You have a game to win. They're waiting for you." You pushed at his chest, moving him back.
"I'll see you after?"
"Yeah."
You walked towards the large football field, sitting beside one of your classmates and her girlfriend. The three of you chatted excitedly about the party a nearby frat would be hosting if the university won the game.
The game started, and there was a roar of cheering from your peers as all eyes were on the players who were running onto the field. Your eyes felt magnetised to Cameron's frame as he got everyone into position, shouting commands and hyping the team up further.
As the game progressed, you leaned forward in suspense as the bleachers erupted in noise, the sound pressing against your chest like a second heartbeat. The clock was bleeding out, just seconds left, and everything hung on this final play.
Cameron stood in the pocket, calm in a way that didn't make sense when everything around him seemed to be buzzing with chaotic energy. You'd seen that look before, quiet and focused, like the rest of the world fades out at his command. "Come on, Cam," you whisper, not even realising you've spoken out loud, as you grip the edge of your seat.
The snap. The rush. The defenders closing in.
Then Cameron moved.
He broke right, barely slipping past a tackle, and for a second it looked like he was going to throw, but he didn't. He ran. Straight for the end zone. The crowd rose all at once, a wave of noise so loud that it almost drowned out your thoughts.
He dove.
Touchdown.
Everything explodes. Lights, cheers, people jumping, screaming. You shoot up on your feet too, heart racing, watching him get swallowed by his teammates as they clap his back and hoot in happiness. For a moment, it felt like you were part of it, like you belonged in the glow of that win.
But the feeling doesn't last long.
As you slip away from the stands, heading down towards the hallway near the locker rooms to wait for Cameron, where it's quieter. Cooler. Easier to breathe and release that adrenaline you amassed from the game.
That's when you hear them.
A couple of cheerleaders, just around the corner. You're not trying to listen, but your name — well, not your name, but their description was enough to know they meant you — caught your attention. Your movements halting and breath catching as you unintentionally eavesdropped.
"...I'm just saying, Cameron could have anyone on campus, and that's what he goes for?" A voice rang out before it was followed by a small, disbelieving laugh. Not exactly cruel, but certainly not kind either.
"Right? Like... I don't get it. Sure, she's pretty, I guess, but... she's big. Cameron Cade? Come on."
Your stomach drops at their words.
There was a pause for a second; all that could be heard was the light rustle of pom poms, then another voice, softer but sharper. "He's literally the star quarterback. He could have any cheerleader he wants."
"Exactly. Like, imagine him with someone that actually fits the image, you know? Not..." She trails off, but it seemed she didn't have to finish as her friend pipes up.
"Not her."
They both laugh, softer this time, like they're being polite about it. Like it makes it better.
You feel like throwing up at their words. Call it curiosity, or that you were just a glutton for pain, but you couldn't seem to turn away from the spot your body seemed glued to.
"I mean, it's probably not even that serious anyway," one added. "Guys like him don't settle like that. It's likely temporary."
"Right. It's just... a phase or whatever."
Temporary.
There it was again. That inexplicable feeling rising again.
After that, you didn't stick around any longer to hear more. You stepped back quietly, your prior excitement unraveling piece by piece, replaced with something heavier. Colder.
By the time you got outside and the night air finally hit your skin, you realised just how tight your chest felt. How small you suddenly wanted to make yourself.
Back at your dorm, everything felt still.
No roaring crowd. No bright lights. Just the quiet hum of your room and the echo of those words you couldn’t seem to shake.
You sat on the edge of your bed, staring at your phone. Your mind kept replaying everything. The way they said it so easily. Like it was obvious. Like everyone must have been thinking it.
You thought about him.
About the way his hand lingered on your waist. The way he looked at you when you were talking, like there was nowhere else he’d rather be. The way he didn’t rush out after, even when you expected him to.
But then again… he had never called it anything.
Your phone buzzed.
You flinched a little before picking it up to find that Cameron had texted you the address of the frat house party celebrating the home game win.
You contemplated your options: sit and wallow in peace or get dressed up and show the fuck out!
So here you were, standing outside the house with one of the girls from the lab, the bass thumping through the pavement, vibrating in the soles of your boots. Taking a deep breath, you adjusted your crop top, suddenly feeling exposed.
Before you could overthink, you were pulled up the stairs, the clack of your heels following each step. Stepping inside, the air was thick with the smell of cheap beer, expensive cologne, and weed. The sea of bodies looked almost like a blur as your eyes darted around the room subconsciously to find him.
As always, he stood in the living room, surrounded by his usual swarm of admirers as he held a cup in his left hand, his football jersey replaced with a plain white tee stretched tight over his shoulders, a graphic zip-up and his denim jacket. His gold chain glinted in the light as his head tipped back in a boisterous laugh at something that was said.
You watched for a moment longer with that gnawing feeling in your stomach because, in that moment, he wasn't just the guy who spent months pursuing you, who fucked you senseless in empty classrooms and cars. He was Cameron Cade. The star QB. The king of the campus. And well, you were just... you.
The distance between you two felt insurmountable. You turned away, heading towards the kitchen in search of something to dull the stint. You squeezed past a couple making out against the doorframe and grabbed a bottle of vodka from the counter, needing to cool down.
"You made it."
The voice was low, right against your ear, and you jumped. Before you turn around, strong arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you back against a solid, muscular chest. Cameron's chin rested on your shoulder, his weight grounding you even as it unsettled you. He nuzzled your neck, his hands splaying possessively over your exposed stomach, thumbs brushing right under the hem of your crop top.
"Yeah, well, you invited me," you utter, trying to keep your voice light, but your body stiffens in his arms.
He held on for another breath, then let you go, letting you move to pour yourself a drink. You felt his eyes on you the whole time, a weight you couldn't shake.
For the next hour, you drifted through the party like a ghost. You found your lab partner and laughed at something she said near the keg, but the moment you spotted Cameron moving toward you, you excused yourself to the bathroom. Later, you ended up on the back porch, pretending to be fascinated by your phone, and when he stepped outside, you slipped back inside before he could reach you.
The third time you were in the hallway, leaning against the wall, letting the noise wash over you.
A group of girls walked past, whispering and giggling, and you caught the tail end of their words: "...wonder what he sees in her..."
You felt your stomach drop.
And then a hand clamped around your wrist.
You looked up to find Cameron, his jaw tight, his eyes burning. Without a word, he tugged you down the hall, past the coat closet, past the back stairwell, until he shoved open the door to a small study room tucked away near the basement. The room was quiet, lit only by a desk lamp. A cluttered bookshelf lined one wall, and a worn leather couch sat against the other.
He closed the door behind you and locked it.
"Cameron–"
"What the fuck is going on with you?" His voice was low, controlled, but the edge was razor-sharp. He stood with his hands on his hips, his chest heaving. "You've been dodging me all night. Three times. Three times I tried to get to you, and you vanished."
You crossed your arms, looking away. "I just needed space."
"Space." He let out a humourless laugh. "You've been pulling away since the game. I'm not stupid. I know what people are saying. But I need to hear it from you."
Your throat tightened. "I'm not saying they're right, Cameron. But..." you paused, running a hand over your bare arms. "Look at you. I'm not exactly–"
"Not what?" He stepped closer, his voice dropping. "Not the right fit for a quarterback?" He stopped right in front of you, close enough that you could smell the whiskey on his breath, the warmth of his skin. "I don't give a shit about any of that."
"Cameron–"
"Let me finish." His hand came up, cupping your jaw, his hand came up, cupping your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheek. "I've been chasing you since September. You think I didn't notice you the first time you walked into that lecture hall? I saw you. I saw those curves, that smile, the way you talk with your hands when you're excited. And I wanted you. I still want you."
You blinked back the burn in your eyes. "It's not that simple."
"It is." His forehead pressed against yours, his voice barely a whisper. "It's that simple. You're beautiful. You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. Every inch of you drives me crazy. And I'm not letting some insecure bullshit take that away."
He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. "I love your body. I love the way your hips feel under my hands. I love the way your thighs press together when I touch you. I love the softness of your belly, the fullness of your tits. I love everything about you. Do you hear me?"
Your breath hitched. "I hear you."
"Good." He kissed you, soft and slow. With a tenderness that made your knees buckle. His tongue brushed against your lower lip, asking for entry, and you gave it to him. His hands slid down your sides, gripping the generous curve of your hips. pulling you flush against him.
When he broke the kiss, he was breathing hard. "I want to show you. Let me show you how much I want you."
You nodded, your voice lost.
He guided you to the leather couch, but instead of lying you down, he turned you around. His hands ran down your arms, your waist, before he pressed down gently against your lower back, guiding you forward. You braced your hands against the armrest, bending over, feeling exposed and vulnerable.
But his hand stayed. Warm and reassuring as he stroked the curve of your ass. He pushed up your crop top, baring your back, and pressed a kiss to your spine. Then another. Then another, trailing lower until he reached the waistband of your jeans.
"Don't move," he whispered, placing a final kiss before his hands moved to the front of your body.
He unbuttoned your jeans, tugging them down, along with your panties. The cool air hit your skin, but his hands were there a second later, gripping your ass, squeezing, spreading.
"Fuck," he breathed. "Look at you."
He knelt behind you, his lips pressing kisses to each cheek, his hands massaging the plush flesh. His tongue traced back up your spine, making you gasp, and he chuckled against your skin.
He stood, and you heard the clinking of his belt as he unbuckled it, then the rasp of his zipper as it went down. His hands found your hips, steadying you, and then the head of his cock pressed against your slick folds. He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, a deep, stretching fullness that made your mouth fall open.
"Oh, god," you moaned.
"Yeah," he groaned, his voice strained. "Feel that? Feel how good you take me?"
He bottomed out, his pelvis flush against your ass, and he stayed there, letting you adjust. His hands slid up your sides, under your top, cupping your tits, his thumbs brushing over your nipples.
"I love this body," he whispered against your shoulder. "I love how soft you are, how warm, how perfectly you fit around me. I could stay inside you forever."
He started moving—slow, deep thrusts that rocked your whole body. His rhythm was languid, almost lazy, his mouth pressing kisses to your neck and shoulder.
"Look," he said softly, nodding toward a dusty mirror propped against the bookshelf. You hadn't noticed it before, but now you saw your reflection: bent over the couch, your face flushed, your tits swinging with each thrust, his body covering yours, his face buried in your neck.
"See how beautiful you are?" His voice was a murmur, honey and heat. "See how well we fit?"
You watched, transfixed, as he fucked you slow and deep, his hips rolling against your ass, his cock glistening as it slid in and out of your pussy. Your reflection showed a woman lost in pleasure, her lips parted, her eyes half-lidded.
But then his pace changed.
He pulled, his grip on your hips tightening. "Get on your knees."
You sank to your knees, and he guided you onto all fours, positioning you so the mirror was directly in front of you. He knelt behind you, his arms wrapping around your waist as his cock nudged at your entrance.
"Keep your eyes on the mirror, baby," he said, his voice rougher now, losing its tender edge. "Watch how well you take me."
He slammed into you, hard and deep, and a cry tore from your throat. His right arm moved from around your waist to wrap around your throat from behind, placing you in a headlock, pulling your back flush against his chest, forcing your gaze to the mirror as he watched your eyes roll as his hips pushed into you.
"Don't look away," he growled. "I want you to see this. See what you do to me. See how perfect you are when you're being fucked the way you deserve."
His head drops to the crook of your neck as he bites down, pulling a broken cry from you. His hips snapped against yours, faster now, harder, his balls slapping against your clit with every thrust. The room filled with the sounds of skin to skin, og your moans, of his grunts, drowning out the bass of the music just behind the door. In the mirror, your body bounced with each impact, your face a mask of raw ecstasy.
"Look at that pussy gripping my cock," he hissed. "Look at how deep I am. You were made for this. Made for me."
Your arms gave out, and you dropped to your elbows, your ass still raised, taking every sharp thrust of his hips. He leaned over you, his chest pressed to your back, his mouth at your ear.
"I'm going to fill you up. Gonna mark your body. Make sure everyone knows you're mine."
Your orgasm built like a wave, cresting, ready to break, and you sobbed a broken version of his name.
"Fu- oh! I'm cumming!" You cried out, your eyes rolling back as your head lolled.
"Come for me, ma," he ordered, his pace frantic. "Come on my cock. Let me feel you."
Your orgasm came crashing down on you, your body convulsing, your pussy clenching and fluttering around him. He followed a moment later, a guttural groan ripped from his chest as he spilt hot, thick cum deep inside you, pumping through his release, grinding against your ass as he grunts with each thrust.
He stayed buried in you for a long moment, panting against your neck as he dropped his arm around your neck. Then he pulled out slowly, watching as his cum leaked out from your swollen folds, and he pressed a kiss to your shoulder.
"Never doubt this again," he affirms, his voice soft once more. "You're mine. And I'm not letting you go."
The study felt smaller now, the air heavy with the scent of sex and sweat.
Cameron pulled his jeans back up, zipped and buckled them, then reached for your hand. His fingers laced through yours, warm and possessive. He didn't say anything at first, just looked at you with that half-lidded, satisfied gaze that made your stomach flip.
"Ready to go back out there?" he asked, his thumb stroking the back of your hand.
You hesitated, thinking about the whispers, the stares. But his grip tightened, grounding you.
"Or we could stay here a little longer," he added, a lazy grin tugging at his lips. "I'm not opposed to round two."
You laughed, shaking your head. "Let's go."
He helped you fix your top, smoothing it down, then adjusted your jeans. His fingers brushed the welts on your neck — the marks he'd left — and he smirked.
"Good," he said, low and satisfied.
He unlocked the door and pulled you out into the hallway, his arm sliding around your waist, anchoring you to his side. The bass thumped louder as you climbed the stairs back to the main floor.
The party was still in full swing, but the moment you emerged, a few heads turned. Specifically, a cluster of cheerleaders near the kitchen island. You recognised them from the whispers earlier — the ones who'd wondered what he saw in you.
They went silent when they spotted you.
One of them, a blonde with a sharp ponytail, glanced at your neck, and her eyes went wide. Her friend nudged her, and soon all of them were staring, their mouths slightly open.
You felt the heat rise to your cheeks, but Cameron's arm tightened, pulling you closer. He pressed a kiss to your temple, loud and deliberate, before steering you past them.
"Hey, babe," he said, loud enough for them to hear, "you want a drink? Beer? Something stronger?"
"Whatever you're having," you managed, your voice steadier than you expected.
He led you to the keg, filled two cups, and handed one to you. The cheerleaders were still watching, their whispers now a murmur you couldn't quite catch. But Cameron didn't even glance their way. He just leaned against the counter, pulled you between his legs, and rested his chin on your shoulder.
"See?" he murmured against your ear, his breath warm. "Nothing to worry about. They're just jealous."
You took a sip, feeling the beer cool your throat. "You think so?"
"I know so." His hand slid down to the curve of your hip, squeezing gently. "Besides, they don't have my marks on them."
You snorted, nearly choking on your drink. "You're insufferable."
"And you love it." He grinned, his teeth grazing your earlobe.
For the rest of the night, he kept his arm around you. When you moved to the living room to talk to your lab partner, he stayed close, his hand resting on the small of your back. When someone challenged him to beer pong, he pulled you onto his lap while he played, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your thigh. When you danced — loosely, laughably — he spun you into his chest and dipped you, stealing a kiss before you could protest.
Every time he caught a cheerleader staring, he made a point of touching you. A kiss. A squeeze. A whisper.
And you found yourself relaxing into it, into him, into the warmth of his attention.
At one point, the blonde from earlier walked past, her eyes flicking to the dark marks on your neck. She opened her mouth, but before she could say anything, Cameron spoke.
"Hey, Stacey," he said, his tone light, almost friendly. "You see something you like?"
Stacey's face flushed. "Uh, no, I just—"
"Good." He didn't let her finish. "Because I do. And she's mine."
He turned back to you, dismissing her completely, and pressed a kiss to your forehead. You felt a grin spread across your face, helpless and genuine.
By the time the party wound down, you were leaning against him, tired and happy, his arm draped over your shoulders like a permanent fixture.
"Same time next week?" he asked, his voice teasing.
"Maybe," you replied, tilting your head to look at him. "If you're lucky."
He laughed, low and warm, and kissed you again — slow, sweet, in full view of anyone still watching.
"I'm the luckiest guy on this campus," he said against your lips. "And I don't need anyone else to see it. I already know it."
You walked out together, his hand in yours, the night air cool on your skin. Behind you, the party hummed on, but you didn't look back.
summary: You and Jason broke up 2 years ago because of him constantly pushing you away. You see Jason on a date with a new girl whilst out on yet another date. Even after the date, when you're under your date in the back of his Cadillac, all you can think about is Jason.
pairing: Jason Todd x black!f!reader
warnings: Angst, arguments, messy breakups, bad coping mechanisms (sex and drinking), Jason is emotionally stunted, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, car sex
note: Based off of the song Rhythm of Love by Cil
word count: 2,062
🎶 While I'm wasted in the back of a Cadillac
Under somebody, somebody, somebody
It makes me sick to watch you fall into the rhythm
And I'm nobody, nobody nobody 🎶
The leather of the Cadillac's back seat is cool against your bare thighs. The man above you —what was his name? Derek? Matt? — moves with a rhythm that should feel good, should pull you under, should drown everything out like it always does. His mouth trails down your neck, his fingers digging into your hip as he positions himself between your legs. The windows are fogged, the city lights bleeding through in smears of gold and red.
But your mind is somewhere else entirely.
You close your eyes, and instead of the weight of this stranger pressing you into the upholstery, you feel his weight.
Jason.
The memory of his hands, calloused and warm, sliding up your ribs. The way he used to whisper your name like it was a prayer and a curse all at once. Two years. It's been two years since you walked out of his apartment, since you told yourself you were done crying over a man who wouldn't let you in.
And yet here you are, lying in the back of a Cadillac, letting a man you barely know fuck you into the leather, pretending it's enough.
The date had started like all the others. A nice dinner at that Italian place downtown, the one with the dim lighting and the overpriced wine. Marcus — yes, Marcus has to be correct — had laughed at your jokes, held the door open, told you you were beautiful in a way that felt scripted but sincere enough. You wore that red dress, the one that clings to your curves like a second skin, the one that always makes you feel powerful. You sipped your Chianti and talked about your job, your hobbies, the way you'd always wanted to travel to Greece.
And then you saw him.
Jason Todd, sprawled in a booth across the restaurant, his arm draped over the shoulders of a woman with honey-blonde hair and a smile worthy of a toothpaste ad. She was laughing at something he said, her hand resting on his chest, and Jason — your Jason, the one who never let anyone touch him like that — was letting her. Leaning into it. Smiling that crooked smile you hadn't seen in two years.
Your chest caved in. You felt it, a physical collapse, like someone had reached inside you and pulled out your ribs. Marcus was still talking, something about his boat, but the words were underwater. All you could see was the way Jason's fingers traced lazy circles on the blonde's shoulder. The way he looked at her like she was the answer to a question he'd been asking forever.
You wanted to scream. You wanted to march over there and slap that smile off his face, or maybe slap yourself for still caring. Instead, you finished your wine, excused yourself to the bathroom, and stared at your reflection in the mirror until your hands stopped shaking.
You're on a date. You're moving on. You're fine.
But you weren't fine. You were never fine.
The first time you slept with someone after the breakup, it was a guy you met at a bar. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a scruffy jaw that reminded you of Jason in the worst way. You took him home, let him fuck you against the headboard, and when it was over, you lay there staring at the ceiling, feeling nothing but a hollow ache where satisfaction should have been.
That became the pattern.
One-night stands.
Blind dates.
Friends with benefits.
You threw yourself into every bed that opened its doors, hoping that if you fucked enough people, you'd eventually fuck the memory of Jason out of your system. You told yourself it was liberation. This is what moving on looks like. But every time a man groaned your name, every time his hands grabbed your hips, every time he buried himself inside you, you found yourself comparing. He doesn't kiss like Jason. He doesn't hold me like Jason. He doesn't make me feel like I'm falling apart and coming together at the same time.
No one ever did.
After the restaurant, Marcus suggested a drive. "Got the old man's Cadillac," he said, grinning, his hand on the small of your back. "Plenty of room in the back seat."
You knew what that meant. You knew it the second he said it. And you agreed, because that's what you did. You said yes to the drinks, yes to the charm, yes to the sex that followed like a well-rehearsed script. You let him take you to the parking lot behind the restaurant, let him open the door for you, let him slide in beside you.
Now his mouth is on your collarbone, his hand sliding up your thigh, and you're staring at the ceiling of the Cadillac, counting the tiny perforations in the fabric. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen...
"Okay?" he murmurs against your skin.
"Mm-hmm."
He takes that as encouragement. His fingers find your cunt, and you gasp — not from pleasure, but from the shock of it, the intrusion. You're wet, because your body doesn't care about your heart. Your body is a traitor. It responds to touch the way it's been trained to, opening up, welcoming him in.
He pushes inside you, and you close your eyes.
And then you're gone.
You're back in Jason's apartment, the one in the Bowery with the busted radiator and the stack of books on the floor. It's late, maybe two in the morning, and you're straddling his lap on that worn-out couch, his hands gripping your ass, his mouth hot and hungry on yours.
"You're gonna be the death of me," he growls against your lips.
You laugh, breathless. "Good. Then I'll have you all to myself."
He flips you onto your back, pins you to the cushions, and looks down at you with those eyes — green and fierce and so full of want it makes your stomach flip. "I love you," he says, and he says it like it hurts. "I love you so goddamn much it scares me."
"Then don't push me away," you whisper, your fingers threading through his hair. "Let me in, Jay. Please."
He doesn't answer. He kisses you instead, deep and desperate, and you let him. You let him because you think that's enough, that his body can say what his mouth can't. He fucks you slow that night, like he's memorising the shape of you, every curve, every sound. When he comes, he buries his face in your neck and shudders, and you hold him, convinced that this time will be different.
It wasn't.
Marcus is moving faster now, his breath ragged, his grip tightening. "God, you feel good," he grunts.
But you don't feel it. You feel nothing except the ghost of Jason's hands, Jason's mouth, Jason's cock. You didn't mean to compare every guy to Jason, you tried not to.
You remember the way he used to take you from behind, one hand fisted in your hair, the other splayed across your stomach, pulling you back into him. You remember the way he'd whisper filthy things in your ear, things that made you blush and burn and come undone. You remember the way he'd hold you afterwards, his chest pressed against your back, his lips on your shoulder, his voice soft: Stay. Don't go. Please don't go.
But you always went. Because staying meant seeing the walls he built, night after night. It meant watching him shut down, push you away, lock himself in his own head. It meant loving someone who wouldn't let himself be loved.
So you left.
And you've been running ever since.
The breakup happened on a Tuesday. It was raining, because of course it was. You'd been fighting for a month straight — stupid things, really. He forgot to call. You were too clingy. He said you "deserved better." You said you didn't want better, you wanted him. But he wouldn't hear it. He'd already made up his mind, the same way he made up his mind about everything: alone, in the dark, without consulting anyone.
"Just go," he said, standing in the doorway, his jaw tight, his hands shoved in his pockets. "It's better this way."
"For who?" you wailed, tears streaming down your face. "For you? Because it sure as hell isn't better for me!"
He didn't answer. He just stood there, a statue carved from grief, and watched you walk away. You waited for him to call you back. You counted to ten, twenty, thirty. But the door clicked shut, and that was it.
Two years.
Two years of waking up alone. Two years of pretending you were fine. Two years of letting strangers fuck you into mattresses and back seats and kitchen counters, hoping that if you filled yourself with enough bodies, you'd forget what it felt like to be filled with him.
But you haven't forgotten. You'll never forget.
Marcus is close. You can tell by the way his rhythm turns frantic, the way his fingers dig into your hips. "I'm gonna... fuck..."
"Come inside me," you say, because that's what you're supposed to say. That's the script. The words fall out of your mouth like a reflex, hollow and rehearsed.
He groans, thrusts deep, and stills. You feel the warmth spread inside you, and you close your eyes, trying to feel something, anything, but there's only a cold, yawning void. He collapses on top of you, breathing hard, his weight pressing you deeper into the leather.
"Wow," he mutters after a moment. "That was..."
"Great," you finish for him. "Yeah."
He lifts his head, looks at you with that post-coital softness. "You okay?"
No. I'm not okay. I'm never okay. I'm lying in the back of a Cadillac, covered in a stranger's cum, and all I can think about is the man who broke my heart two years ago, and I hate myself for it.
"Yeah," you say, forcing a smile. "I'm good."
He kisses your forehead, and you let him. You let him pull you closer, let him whisper sweet nothings in your ear, let him pretend this means something. Because that's what you do. You let them pretend. You let yourself pretend. And when it's over, you go home, shower until your skin is raw, and start the cycle all over again.
But tonight, something is different. Tonight, the illusion cracked. You saw Jason with someone else, and it sliced you open in a way you didn't think was possible. You thought you'd numbed yourself enough. You thought the sex, the drinks, the constant motion had sanded down the edges of your grief.
But all it did was polish it. Make it shine brighter. Make it hurt more.
You slip out of the Cadillac an hour later, after Marcus has dressed and driven you back to your apartment. He kisses you goodbye, asks if he can call you again, and you say yes, because why not? Another name in your phone. Another body in your bed. Another night you'll forget by morning.
But when you get inside, when you're alone in the dark of your empty apartment, you don't head for the shower. You don't pour yourself a drink. You sink to the floor, back against the door, and let the tears come.
You cry for the girl you used to be, the one who believed in love, who thought that if she loved hard enough, she could break through anyone's walls. You cry for the woman you've become, the one who fucks strangers to feel whole, who smiles through the pain, who tells herself she's fine when she's falling apart. You cry for Jason, for the way he looked at that blonde, for the way he never looked at you like that in the end.
And you cry because you know, deep down, that you'd still take him back. Even after everything. Even after the years of silence, the hurt, the walls. You'd crawl back to him on your hands and knees if he asked.
But he won't ask. He never does.
The memories play in your head, over and over again. Like a movie premiere replaying the worst moments of your life on the big screen for your personal viewing displeasure.
You press your palms to your eyes and let the darkness swallow you.
pervy, hot loser! Mingi can't keep his eyes off you
pervy, hot loser! Mingi, who wastes most of his university life cutting classes with San and Wooyoung to fuck around and play basketball or spark up behind the building. He gets teased by his friends for still being a virgin despite his looks. He gets called nicknames like "hot loser" quite often by them.
pervy, hot loser! Mingi, who is too focused on jerking off to whichever girl he decides to hyperfixate on, to actually ever go up to one and sleep with them. Whether he's seen them walking through the campus hallways or they had a sliver of an interaction, he will latch onto them as fap fuel for when he gets home. Assignments forgotten as he strips down to his boxers and sits in his bed, a saved porn link already loading as he imagines it's the two of them instead.
pervy, hot loser! Mingi, who happens to stumble upon you studying in the library as he sits down to wait for Hongjoong and attempt to finish his assignments. Your hair was covered in a scarf, but your edges were laid, and you had minimal makeup with your large frames hanging off your nose as you typed furiously on your laptop.
pervy, hot loser! Mingi, who can't stop glancing up at you as you bit your pen when you were thinking or reading your textbook. He couldn't stop himself from letting his eyes wander down the length of your neck to your chest, the top part of your boobs visible in your tank top and open flannel, legs crossed, hiking your skirt up your plush thighs, causing him to drool at the sight of them.
pervy, hot loser! Mingi, who couldn't focus on a single word Hongjoong said as he let his thoughts wander to what your thighs would look like around his head or draped across his thighs as he pounds into you. Are you a moaner? Maybe you whine? Maybe you whimper? All he knew was you were running through his mind, causing his jeans to feel tight, and he didn't even know your name.
pervy, hot loser! Mingi, who went home and had the longest session of his life just masturbating to the thought of you as you sat there studying, he had never felt this intense of a feeling in his life. His large hand pulls out his big, veiny cock from their confines, and he spits in his hand as he strokes himself to what he would do if you let him. He damn blacks out when he reaches his peak, groaning loudly as his chest heaves and his hand moves faster as he jerks himself through his earth-shattering orgasm. The mess on his chest settled as he lay on his bed, limp.
pervy, hot loser! Mingi, who repeats this cycle daily. He'd go to the library and sit at a few tables away, where he won't be in your direct line of sight, but close enough that he can see how your crop top pushes your breasts up, and your jeans hug your curves as you have a new hairdo this time. Twists with beads. The soft clacking of your beads as you shifted your head slightly when you read a new paragraph. He'd watch you throughout your entire study session only to return home and wonder if he'd be able to hear your beads as he thrusts into you from behind, his thoughts race as he imagines you clenching around him as he tightens his fist, moving up and down faster.
pervy, hot loser! Mingi, who gets caught staring at you as you study with Seonghwa by Wooyoung, who teases him for being so hot but such a damn loser who can't pull because once he opens his mouth, he exposes how much of a gooner he is. Hongjoong decides that he has to step in and help, so he gets Seonghwa to set up a tutoring session for him.
pervy, hot loser! Mingi, who comes to your house early because he was so nervous, but what you don't know is that he jerked off before coming over in order to try and decrease his chances of getting hard in your flat. His theory failed. The second you opened the door, he was a goner. He felt his dick twitch in his trousers as you let him into your house that smelt like vanilla and bergamot. As you led him to your table, Mingi couldn't help but stare at your ass on the short walk, almost getting caught by you as you twirled suddenly, and his eyes snapped back up to yours in record time.
pervy, hot loser! Mingi, who can barely concentrate on what you're saying when he's so aware of how close he is to you, close enough to smell your cocoa butter lotion and papaya leave-in conditioner. He was buzzing from head to toe with awareness as he attempted to focus on not cumming in his pants when you brush his leg when you move.
pervy, hot loser! Mingi, who gets caught by you as his eyes practically burn holes through your top and bra. His laser-focused expression as you watched for a second, deciding not to say anything just yet. A few minutes go by before you mention it and watch him attempt to stammer out excuses and apologies.
pervy, hot loser! Mingi, who agrees to your rewards system rule, attempts to answer every question you have for an opportunity to explore your body. With each right answer, he requests a new favour — a graze here, a kiss there — he was practically shaking as he pulled you closer.
pervy, hot loser! Mingi, who loses his virginity that night. You push him down on your bed and give him the ride of his life. He cannot believe he's balls deep in your warm, wet pussy as you bounce up and down on his thick length. He breaths out little moans and groans, broken whines and words escape him as his eyes roll back and his hands alternate from gripping your waist as you move fervently and holding onto the sheets as his hips stutter in his attempt to keep up with your actions.
pervy, hot loser! Mingi, who cums so hard, he hears his ears ringing and his vision blurs as he grabs your thighs and feels your body keep going until you reach your peak a few thrusts later, and your body shakes as you release broken moans of his name before collapsing in his arms.
note: Ateez's In Your Fantasy was playing when I thought of this, so enjoy. I might release a part 2 of their families finding out.
summary: Neteyam has always been there, a stable, sturdy figure in your peripheral vision as you ran around the forest with Lo'ak and Kiri. He saved your asses more times than you would like to admit. So why now is it that you can't get him off your mind?
pairing: aged up!Neteyam Sully x fem Omatikaya!reader
warnings: swearing, fighting, explosions, blood, unconsciousness, mentions of wet dreams, smut, p in v, oral (m & f receiving), anal (mildly), minor miscommunication trope (I know, I hate me too)
word count: 6k
For as long as you could remember, Neteyam Sully has always been there. A looming force.
Neteyam has always been the constant in your chaotic world, a towering figure of blue-skinned reliability lurking at the edges of your wild romps through the forest. A fixture in your life since the earliest days of your childhood, a steady presence woven into the fabric of the Omatikaya clan's vibrant existence on Pandora.
You don't remember the first time you truly noticed him. Not because it wasn't important, but because he had always been there.
Like the trees. Like the wind moving through the leaves. Like the distant calls of creatures you had grown so used to hearing, that silence felt wrong without them.
Neteyam was simply... part of things.
You, with your boundless energy, had spent countless days darting through the dense undergrowth alongside Lo'ak, Tuk, and Kiri, the siblings who felt like your own blood.
Lo'ak's reckless grin matched your own, while Kiri's quiet insights grounded the madness. Even when you were older, and Tuk came along, her little legs trying to keep up as you and Lo'ak went about the forest on another adventure that was sure to lead you to trouble.
But Neteyam?
He was the one who shadowed you all, his bow always at the ready, his voice a sharp command cutting through the thrill of the chase.
You were just a young kit, barely old enough to toddle through the underbrush, when your paths first crossed in earnest. Your father was a skilled hunter, and when he was lost in the brutal wars against the Sky People, it left a void in your family kelku that echoed with his absence. As the only child of a widowed mother who wove baskets and tended the clan's communal fires, you carried the weight of his legacy early — expected to embody the hunter's spirit, to track and provide as he once did. But in those tender years, play was your world, and it was through Lo'ak that you found your way into the Sully family's orbit.
Jake and Neytiri, the clan's revered leaders, embraced you as one of their own from the start. Your mother's ties to the old ways, her quiet strength mirroring Neytiri's, made it natural.
Evenings became routine: you'd join the family pod for meals, sitting cross-legged by the fire, Tuk, a tiny bundle of curiosity, then crawling into your lap for comfort. You'd hum lullabies your father once sang, stroking her soft ears until she dozed, her small tail curling around your arm.
You belonged with them.
You ran when they ran. Climbed when they climbed. Fell, laughed, argued, and made up just as quickly.
And somewhere behind it all, Neteyam watched.
Not in a strange way. Not in a way that made you uncomfortable. Just… present. A steady figure lingering at the edges of every moment, always close enough to step in, never quite part of the chaos.
As the eldest son of Jake Sully, the Olo'eyktan, and Neytiri, the fierce warrior Tsahìk's daughter, Neteyam carried the weight of expectation on his broad shoulders. He trained relentlessly, leading patrols and mediating clan disputes, his golden eyes always scanning for threats to the harmony Eywa demanded of him.
He'd saved your behinds more times than pride allowed you to count.
Lo'ak, with his mischievous spark and untamed energy, had spotted you one dawn while you gathered wildflowers near the village edge, your small hands clutching stems as if they were spears.
"Come on, let's race the ikran shadows!" he'd called out, and you'd followed without hesitation, your laughter mingling with his as you dashed through the ferns. From that day, you were inseparable. Two wild spirits chasing the forest's secrets, climbing vines and splashing in shallow streams. Neteyam, even then, the responsible elder brother at perhaps eight cycles old, watched from afar. His golden eyes tracked your escapades with a mix of exasperation and quiet protectiveness. He'd linger at the pod's entrance, bow in hand for his own training, pretending to focus on sharpening arrows while stealing glances as you and Lo'ak vanished into the green.
Despite it all, your responsibilities extended beyond play. With your father gone, the clan looked to you to honour his role — hunting small game as you grew, but also gathering herbs for Tsahìk Mo'at, the clan's healer.
Mornings often found you in the misty glades, basket slung over your shoulder, fingers deftly plucking healing ferns and luminous fungi that glowed faintly under Eywa's touch. Mo'at would nod approvingly as you delivered them to her tent, her wrinkled hands sorting your finds. "Your father would be proud, child. The Great Mother guides your hands." These duties grounded you, a reminder of the expectations: to contribute, to survive, to weave your thread into the clan's tapestry without faltering.
Yet, despite your duties, trouble followed you and Lo'ak like shadows, and Neteyam was always there to pull you from its grasp.
One afternoon, at around ten cycles, you'd ventured too far toward the floating mountains, daring each other to touch the Hallelujah Mountains' vines. A sudden storm whipped up, winds howling as rain lashed the cliffs. Lo'ak slipped on slick rock, dangling precariously, while you clung to a root, heart pounding. Neteyam's voice cut through the gale; he'd trailed you, as always, sensing the recklessness. His small but strong frame reached out, hauling Lo'ak up first, then you, his grip firm on your wrist.
"Skxawngs! You'll get us all killed," he'd scolded, but his eyes held relief, lingering on your mud-streaked face. "Foolish," he'd continued, snapping and reprimanding the two of you, his golden eyes flashing with frustration, bioluminescent spots flickering like stars on his skin.
You'd yanked away, muttering about how you didn't need his babysitting, but the heat of his grip lingered on your flesh, a phantom touch that haunted you long after.
That night, as the family gathered in their pod, Neytiri smoothed her hand over your braids as she checked you and Lo'ak for wounds. "You are family, but the forest tests the careless." She mused, moving around the Sully kelku with grace and familiarity.
Jake chuckled, clapping Neteyam on the back. "Good instincts, son. That's what makes a leader."
Neytiri nodded approvingly, her tail swishing, but Lo'ak rolled his eyes. "Yeah, because climbing cliffs is such a threat to the clan." He grumbled, his tail lashing behind him in his annoyance at his father's praise towards his brother.
Neteyam shot him a warning look, the sibling rivalry simmering — Lo'ak's wildness clashing with Neteyam's duty-bound restraint. Kiri, ever the peacemaker, changed the subject to Eywa's signs in the stars, but you caught Neteyam glancing your way, his expression unreadable.
As cycles turned, the pattern persisted. At twelve, during a mock hunt with slingshots, you and Lo'ak startled a thanator cub, its mother charging from the brush. Neteyam, practising nearby, fired a warning shot from his bow, drawing the beast away long enough for you to flee. He fought it off with a spear twice his size, earning scars that Jake cleaned later, praising his bravery.
"That's my future Olo'eyktan," he'd say, while you hovered guiltily, offering herbs from your pouch.
Neteyam waved you off gruffly. "Just stay out of trouble."
But in quiet moments, he'd watch you teach Tuk basic weaves, your patience shining as you guided her tiny fingers. Tuk adored you, calling you 'sister' in her lisping voice.
Once, when Neteyam suggested you show her a safer knot, you snapped, "She's learning fine without your critiques!" Tuk giggled, siding with you, and Neteyam backed down, a rare smile tugging his lips.
Throughout this, Kiri became your confidante in those growing years, her spiritual attunement mirroring your own subtle connection to Eywa.
You’d wander the bioluminescent groves together, baskets heavy with herbs, sharing whispers. “I feel her everywhere,” you’d start, pressing a hand to a glowing tree. “Like she’s breathing with me, in the wind, the roots.”
Kiri’s eyes would light up at finding a kindred spirit who felt Eywa similarly to herself. “Eywa speaks through you, too. The signs are strong. The shifting of the wind, in dreams, pulls towards certain paths.” She’d weave flowers into your hair as she redoes your braids, sensing the unspoken tension with her brother, but you’d deflect, laughing it off as sibling-like bickering.
By adolescence, the pretence solidified. You insisted you couldn’t stand Neteyam’s rigidity, his constant shadowing like an unwanted guard. He'd retort that your impulsiveness endangered everyone, especially as his duties as future Olo'eyktan mounted — leading young warriors, mediating minor disputes under Jake’s watchful eye. Family dynamics deepened the strain. Meals were lively: Lo'ak teasing Neteyam about his 'watchdog' habits toward you, Kiri mediating with knowing glances, Tuk piping up with innocent questions that made you soften. Neytiri often pulled you aside for archery lessons, treating you as a daughter, while Jake shared hunting strategies, emphasising your role in the clan's survival.”Your father’s spirit lives in you. Hunt well, protect the young ones.”
Yet, beneath the barbs, attraction simmered. Neteyam watched from patrol perches as you rode off with Lo'ak on gathering runs, his heart twisting with unspoken worry — and something warmer. Saving you became a ritual: pulling you from a collapsing vine bridge at fourteen, his body shielding yours from falling debris; diverting a stampeding herd during a herb forage, his direhorse barreling between you and danger. Each time, touches lingered, his hand on your back, steadying; your fingers brushing his arm in thanks, igniting sparks neither acknowledged.
Interactions with Tuk grew tender. At sixteen, you'd teach her to ride a small pa'li, your voice soft as you adjusted her grip. “Gentle, little one—feel the bond.”
Neteyam watched, then suggested, “Hold the reins firmer for control.” You'd whirl on him.
“She's not a warrior yet! Let her feel Eywa first.”
Tuk hugged you, whispering, “You're the best teacher.” Neteyam sighed, but his eyes softened.
Conversations with Kiri deepened during herb runs. “Eywa's presence... It's overwhelming sometimes,” you'd confess, kneeling by a sacred pool. “Like she's urging me toward something.” Kiri nodded along with your words.
“Toward balance. Perhaps a bond waiting to form.” She added, voice fading softly as she looked out into the horizon.
Nights brought dreams that blurred the lines. Yours began innocently but twisted heat. In the first, at eighteen cycles, Neteyam cornered you in a dream-glade, pinning you to moss, his mouth claiming yours before trailing down to suck your nipples, teeth grazing until they peaked. His fingers plunged into your pussy, thrusting deep, curling to hit that spot, thumb rubbing your clit until you came hard, juices soaking his hand. He flipped you, cock sliding into your slick folds, pounding relentlessly until you shattered again.
You woke up panting, aroused and confused. Your arousal dampening your thighs from the remnants of your dream still clinging to your clouded mind.
Across the scattered array of pods, Neteyam’s dreams mirrored the intensity of your own. He envisioned you kneeling against the soft moss of the forest floor, lips wrapping around his hardened cock, sucking deeply as he fucked your mouth, cum spilling down your throat. Then, bending you over, he thrusts into your pussy, gripping your hips tightly as the rhythm of his thrusts builds to a mutual release. filling you there also. The guilt that overtook Neteyam mingled with ecstasy upon waking as he looked down, his cock spent in his loincloth.
These dreams haunted your days. Training sessions dragged, bodies clashing in spars. Your breasts brushing his chest, his thighs pressing your core accidentally as he overpowered you down to the mossy floor, leaving you both flushed and pulling away before you were told to.
“Focus!” he’d bark, but his voice roughened.
Hunts prolonged the torment. The great migration hunt spanned days. Tracking sturmbeest across plains, Neteyam commanded the group, which consisted of you, Lo’ak and a small handful of warriors. Mornings started with strategy by the fire, Jake overseeing via the comms that rested around Neteyam and Lo’ak’s necks. “Neteyam, keep formation.”
You'd scout ahead with Lo'ak, spotting tracks, but veer into thickets, Neteyam calling you back. The chase unfolded over hours — galloping through dust clouds, arrows loosed in volleys. One bull charged your flank; Neteyam shoved you aside, downing it with a precise shot. During rests by rivers, you'd share water skins, fingers touching, eyes locking too long. “You're reckless,” he'd murmur, but his tail flicked toward you. Lo'ak teased, and Kiri smiled knowingly. The hunt yielded a massive haul, but the tension built like storm clouds.
Another extended pursuit targeted prolemuris in the canopy forests; their agile forms were a challenge for three days. Neteyam assigned vines for swings, his body brushing yours as he demonstrated. You swung ahead, gathering herbs mid-hunt for Mo'at, rare blossoms only found high. A branch snapped; you fell toward thorns. Neteyam caught you mid-air, arms wrapping your waist, pulling you to safety. Pressed together on a limb, breaths shared, his hardness nudged your hip. “Why do you test me?” he whispered.
You pulled away, heart racing. Evenings around campfires, family stories flowed — Jake recounting war losses, including your father's, his hand on your shoulder. “He fought bravely. You honour him every day.”
Dreams multiplied, ranging from a simple kiss in front of the clan or escaping duties to explore one another.
Yours: Neteyam binding you with vines, spanking your ass before he knelt, hands roaming your body as he licked your pussy, tongue thrusting inside, sucking your clit to orgasm. Watching as your body shook under the skilled hands of the man who you were sure hated you. Then he rose, moving your pliant body as he entered you slowly before fucking you hard, cock slamming deep until you squirted as moans ripped from your throat.
His: You laying him against the soft mossy floor, kissing down the expanse of his chest as the bioluminescent dots on his body pulsed in time to his wildly beating heart before you straddled him. You slid down his hardened cock, riding him to the rhythm of the forest, pussy clenching his cock, then in dreams, shifting to the tight ring of your ass, the forbidden tightness making him shudder at the sensation of you wrapped around him as he came explosively.
The breaking point loomed during the RDA skirmish. Scouts warned of encroachment; Jake led the assault, Neteyam at his side. You joined on your ikran, diving into chaos — bullets zipping, explosions blooming. You targeted a saboteur at a vital root vein, arrow flying true, but his dying twitch detonated charges. The blast hurled you from your ikran, world tumbling.
The world dissolved into fragments — shrapnel's white-hot kiss, the jarring impact of Neteyam's ikran beneath you, his arms locked around your waist as blood soaked his chest, warm and sticky against your skin. Consciousness ebbed in waves, each beat of your heart pushing more of your life force through the wound in your side. The wind roared past as he dove, his voice distant, frayed with panic.
"Stay with me. Stay with me."
You tried to answer, but your tongue was thick, throat dry. The canopy blurred into smears of green and gold, and then you were moving — not flying, but running. Neteyam had dismounted mid-stride, cradling you against his chest, his long legs eating up the ground toward the healers' tents. Each jostle sent fresh agony through your side, and you whimpered, your hand weakly gripping his shoulder.
"I'm here," he gasped, voice cracking. "I'm here, I've got you. Just hold on."
The tent flaps whipped open. Mo'at's sharp voice cut through the haze — commands, reassurances, the clatter of bowls and the acrid smell of burning herbs. You were laid on soft furs, hands pressing against your wound, and Neteyam's face swam above you, pale as moonlight.
"Don't leave," you whispered, though you weren't sure the words made it past your lips.
"I won't." His hand found yours, fingers intertwining. "I'm not going anywhere."
Then darkness swallowed everything.
Neteyam sat vigil, holding your hand. Pain ebbed under the tonics, but your face — pale, skin torn from the shrapnel — cracked his heart.
The first day passed in fevered fragments. You drifted in and out, never fully awake, never fully under. Mo'at worked tirelessly, stitching the jagged tear in your side, packing the wound with numbing pastes and healing moss. The bleeding slowed, then stopped. Your breath steadied into a shallow rhythm.
Neteyam didn't move from your side.
He sat cross-legged on the furs, your hand clutched between both of his, thumb tracing absent circles on your wrist. His eyes were fixed on your face; the flutter of your eyelids, the occasional twitch of your lips, watching for any sign of returning consciousness. The healers bustled around him, but he was a statue, unyielding.
By the second day, the tent had become a pressure cooker of tension. Lo'ak came, then Kiri, then Jake. They tried to coax him away, to make him eat, to make him rest. He refused.
"Neteyam, you need to–" Jake started.
"I'm fine."
"You haven't slept. You haven't eaten–"
"I said I'm fine."
His voice was clipped, sharp as a blade. Lo'ak tried a different approach, settling beside him with a bowl of broth. "Come on, bro. You're no good to her if you collapse. Just a few mouthfuls."
Neteyam's golden eyes flashed. "I told Mo'at I'd stay. I'm not leaving her."
"You're not leaving her," Kiri said softly, crouching opposite him. "But you have duties. The patrols need direction. The young warriors look to you."
"Let them look elsewhere." The words came out bitter, almost snappish. He didn't look at her. "I have one duty right now. This one."
Lo'ak opened his mouth to argue, but Kiri placed a hand on his arm, shaking her head. They left the broth beside Neteyam, uneaten, and retreated.
By the third day, he was a frayed rope. Dark circles carved hollows under his eyes. His queue hung limp, unbraided. Neytiri came, her face unreadable as she watched her son, her strong, steady, reliable son, crumble at the bedside of a girl he'd spent years claiming to despise.
"Son," she said, her voice gentle, "you must tend to yourself."
"I can't."
"Eywa gives us strength, but even the strongest tree bends before it breaks."
"She needs me." His voice cracked. "I can't– if she wakes and I'm not here–"
"She will wake." Neytiri's hand settled on his shoulder. "But you need to trust the healers. And trust her."
He shook his head, jaw tight. Neytiri sighed, but she didn't force him. She simply sat beside him, silent, offering presence instead of words.
On the fourth evening, Mo'at finished her examination of you and turned to Neteyam with a look that brooked no argument.
"You will walk with me."
"I can't–"
"You will." Her voice was iron wrapped in velvet. "The girl is stable. The spirits have spoken. She will live."
Neteyam’s breath caught. A tremor ran through his shoulders. "She– you're certain?"
"I am Tsahìk. I do not speak uncertainly." Mo'at's weathered hand took his, pulling him to his feet. "Come. There is something you must hear."
He followed her out of the tent, into the dusk that painted the forest in shades of violet and amber. They walked to a quiet grove, the bioluminescent plants casting soft light on their faces. Mo'at turned to face him, her ancient eyes studying him with a knowing that made him feel like a child again.
"You love her."
It wasn't a question. Neteyam flinched as though struck, then slowly, painfully, nodded. "I do."
"Then why have you fought it so long?"
He ran a hand over his face, the exhaustion bleeding through. "Because I am the future Olo'eyktan. Because my duty is to the clan. Because I thought–" He stopped, swallowed. "I thought I could bury it. That if I kept her at arm's length, I could focus on what mattered."
"And what matters, Neteyam?"
He looked up, eyes bright with unshed tears. "She matters. She's always mattered. I just– I was too afraid to admit it."
Mo'at was silent for a long moment, her gaze drifting to the canopy above. "The Great Mother does not gift us feelings by accident. Love is not a distraction. It is a foundation. A leader who cannot love is a leader who cannot lead with his whole heart."
"But the clan–"
"The clan will see what I see: a young man willing to sacrifice his own well-being for another. That is not weakness. That is the heart of a true leader." She stepped closer, her hand coming to rest on his cheek. "You have choices, Neteyam. You can continue to hide, to pretend, to let duty consume you. Or you can choose her. Choose to mate her, to bond with her, to make her your partner in leading this clan. That is not abandoning duty — it is enriching it."
He stared at her, the weight of her words sinking into his chest like roots into the earth. "And if she doesn't want me?"
Mo'at's lips curved into a faint smile. "Then you will survive. But I think you know her heart better than you admit."
She left him there, standing alone in the grove, the night settling around him like a cloak.
You woke to the soft glow of firelight and the weight of a hand in yours.
Your head felt stuffed with tree sap, thoughts slow and syrupy. You turned your head, wincing at the pull in your side, and found Neteyam slumped in a chair beside your bed, his head bowed, braids falling over his face, his hand wrapped around yours as if terrified to let go. He was asleep, chest rising and falling in deep, exhausted breaths. Even in slumber, his brow was furrowed, tension etched into every line of his face.
You didn't move. You just watched him — the way the firelight played across his features, the faint scars on his arms, the way his thumb was still pressed against your pulse point, as if checking that you were still alive.
A surge of emotion — gratitude, confusion, something deeper and hotter — swelled in your chest. You squeezed his hand.
He jolted awake instantly, eyes snapping open, locking onto yours. For a moment, he didn't speak. He just stared, as if afraid you'd vanish if he blinked.
"You're awake." His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper.
"I'm awake." Your own voice sounded like gravel, dry and cracked. "How long...?"
"Four days." He lifted your hand and pressed his forehead to it, a shudder running through him. "Four days. I thought– I thought I'd lost you."
"You stayed."
"Of course I stayed." His laugh was broken, raw. "Where else would I be?"
You should have said something sarcastic, something sharp to break the tension. But the look in his eyes — vulnerable, open, unguarded — stole your words. Instead, you just let your fingers curl around his, a silent promise.
The next few days were a strange, awkward dance.
Neteyam was still at your side constantly, but now that you were awake, the closeness felt charged, electric. He brought you broth, adjusted your bandages, and helped you sit up. His touches were gentle, lingering — a hand on your back steadying you, fingers brushing your cheek as he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. But whenever your eyes met, he looked away, jaw tightening.
You tried to needle him, falling back on old patterns.
"You know, you could let someone else fetch the water. You look like you haven't slept in a week."
"I'm fine."
"You've said that four times today."
"Because it's still true."
You raised an eyebrow, and he huffed, the ghost of a smile flickering across his lips. But the teasing felt different now, lighter, but weighted with something unsaid. Every barb was a deflection, every laugh a shield against the truth that hung between you like a held breath.
Kiri visited, her knowing smile driving you mad. "You two are insufferable," she said one afternoon, helping you walk outside for fresh air.
"Excuse me?"
"Neteyam hasn't left your side in days. He's been a terror to everyone — snapping at poor Lo'ak for breathing too loudly. And you-" She poked your arm. "You watch him like he's the sun when you think no one's looking."
"I do not."
"Do too."
You scowled, but your cheeks burned.
On the fifth day of your recovery, he found you sitting by a stream, watching the glowing fish dart between rocks. He settled beside you, close enough that his tail brushed your ankle.
"You should still be resting."
"You should stop telling me what to do."
A pause. Then, softly: "I don't want to fight with you."
You turned to look at him. His profile was sharp against the fading light, his jaw set. "Neither do I."
The silence stretched, filled with the sound of water and the distant calls of night creatures. His hand inched across the moss between you, stopping just short of yours.
"I was so scared," he whispered. "When you fell. When I saw the blood. I thought-" He stopped, swallowed. "I thought Eywa was taking you from me before I ever had the chance to-"
He broke off, shaking his head. You reached out, your fingers brushing his.
"Chance to what?"
He turned, and the look in his eyes made your breath catch. "You know what."
Your heart hammered. The words hung in the air, fragile and precious. But neither of you moved further. Not yet.
Three days later, you were well enough to walk the path to the Tree of Souls.
Neteyam had suggested it; a pilgrimage, he said, to give thanks for your recovery. But the look on his face told you he meant more. You agreed without hesitation, your pulse quickening as you walked through the forest, following the familiar trail to the sacred grove.
The Tree of Souls stood in the centre of a clearing, its tendrils cascading like waterfalls of light. The air hummed with Eywa's presence, thick and alive. You stepped into the grove, and the world seemed to hold its breath.
Atokirina drifted down around you, glowing seeds of light that danced through the air like stars. Some brushed your skin, warm and tingling, and you gasped as they settled on your shoulders, your hair, your arms.
Neteyam turned to you, and the seeds landed on him too, cocooning you both in a gentle, shimmering embrace.
"This is–" you started.
"Eywa's blessing," he finished, his voice reverent. "I've heard it's happened once before. At the bonding of my parents."
Your breath caught. He stepped closer, the atokirina swirling around you both, creating a barrier of light and warmth. His hand came up, fingertips brushing your cheek.
"I can't pretend anymore." His voice was raw, stripped of all pretence. "I've tried. For years. I've told myself you were a nuisance, a distraction, something I had to watch over and tolerate. But every time I saved you, every time you argued with me, every time I watched you laugh with Tuk or teach the young ones, I fell deeper. And I didn't know how to stop."
"Neteyam–"
"I don't want to stop." He stepped closer, his body inches from yours. "I want you. As my mate. As my partner. As the one who drives me mad and makes me whole."
The atokirina pulsed, humming with energy. Your hand found his chest, feeling his heart pounding beneath your palm.
"I've hated you," you said, your voice trembling. "Because hating you was easier than admitting I dreamed of you."
His eyes widened, a flash of emotion passing through them. "Dre– You dreamed... Of me?"
"Every night. You, in my arms. Your mouth on mine." You pulled him closer, your lips a breath away from his. "Show me I'm not dreaming now."
He didn't hesitate.
His mouth crashed into yours, fierce and hungry, all the pent-up longing bursting free. His tongue swept along your lower lip, and you opened to him, tasting the salt of tears — yours, his, you couldn't tell. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you moaned into the kiss as his teeth grazed your lip.
The atokirina swirled faster, a vortex of light and approval.
He broke the kiss only to trail his lips down your neck, sucking hard enough to leave marks. You arched into him, your fingers tangling in his braids, tugging him closer. "Neteyam-"
"I need you." His voice was rough, desperate. "I want to bond with you. Tsaheylu. Here. Under Eywa's eyes. If that is what you want also."
"Yes."
You reached behind you, shaky fingers gasping your queue as he mimicked your actions. His hand outstretched as your queue was already reaching for his, the tendrils intertwining before either of you could think. The tsaheylu snapped into place, and the world exploded into sensation.
You felt everything. His racing heart, the ache of his longing, the overwhelming tide of love he'd buried for years. It washed over you, through you, drowning you in warmth. And then you felt him feel you. Your own tangled emotions, your fear, your desire, the love you'd denied so fiercely. His forehead pressed to yours as you both took in the new sensation, the intense experience of being one in mind and soul as his eyes stayed on yours.
"Oh," you breathed, tears streaming down your face. "Oh, Eywa–"
He kissed you again as he lowered you to the moss, the atokirina blanketing you both like a living quilt, moving around you in a silent, ancient dance as they rose and fell in time with your shuddered breaths. His hands moved over your body, reverent and urgent, pulling at your loincloth, baring your skin to the night air. You did the same, your fingers shaking as you untied his.
When he entered you, it was slow, measured, his eyes locked on yours.
The tsaheylu made everything feel magnified, like your body wasn't your own. Every inch of his cock sliding into your pussy sent pleasure-pain sparking through your shared nerves. You gasped, your fingers curling around his forearms as you felt him push in further, and he groaned, burying his face in your neck.
"I can feel you," he gasped, thrusting deeper. "Every part of you. Fuck–"
He thrust in, slow and deep, stretching your walls around his girth. You cried out, nails raking his back as he bottomed out, balls pressing against your ass. The rhythm built, powerful strokes that filled you completely, his hips snapping forward. “So tight... made for me,” he panted, one hand pinning your wrist, the other teasing your clit in circles.
The sensations amplified. The pace raw and primal. He fucked you with abandon, no pretence, no restraint. His hips snapped against yours, the sound of skin on skin filling the grove, mingling with your moans and his growls. The tsaheylu amplified every wave of pleasure that crashed through you, doubling each crest, each clench, each shudder.
You flipped him, straddling, sinking down to ride him. Breasts bouncing, you ground your hips, clit rubbing his base. He gripped your ass, thrusting up to meet you, the slap of skin echoing in the sacred space. You came first, your pussy clenching around him, pulling a cry from your throat that echoed across the clearing. He followed, hips stuttering, spilling his seed deep inside you with a roar that shook the trees.
But he didn't stop. He pulled out, licked the mess from your thighs, then flipped you over, entering you from behind. The new angle hit deeper, and with the bond still humming, you felt his pleasure as he thrust into you, felt the coil of your own orgasm building again.
"You're mine now," he rasped, hand fisting your hair gently, pulling your head back. "Say it."
"I'm yours."
"Forever."
"Forever."
The second orgasm crashed over you like a wave, and he followed, filling you again. Then he turned you onto your back, lifted your legs over his shoulders, and took you again, slow and deep, your sweat-slick bodies sliding together.
The night stretched, endless, sacred. By the time the tsaheylu finally released, you were tangled in each other, breathing in unison, the atokirina settled like crowns on your heads.
You woke to the soft grey of pre-dawn, the air cool against your skin, and the solid warmth of Neteyam wrapped around you.
His arms were around your waist, his chest pressed to your back, his breath warm on your neck. The Tree of Souls loomed above, silent witness to the night's passion, its tendrils glowing faintly. You felt heavy, sore, but deeply content.
You stirred, and he tightened his arms, a sleepy grumble escaping his lips.
"Don't move."
"Need to breathe."
"No."
You laughed softly, turning in his arms to face him. His eyes were still half-lidded, hair a tangled mess, a lazy smile curving his lips. He looked ruined—in the best way.
"Good morning, mate," he murmured, the word sending a thrill through you.
"Don't get used to it."
"Get used to what?"
"Me being nice." You poked his chest. "I still think you're insufferable."
His grin widened. "And I still think you're reckless, stubborn, and impossible."
"Yet you mated me."
"Wouldn't have it any other way." He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. Then his hand slid down, cupping your ass with a playful squeeze. "Now, about those dreams you mentioned..."
You shoved him, laughing, as he tumbled onto his back, pulling you with him. You ended up sprawled across his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear.
"We should probably go back," you said, without conviction.
"Probably."
"Tuk will be worried."
"She's fine. Kiri's probably told everyone the atokirina showed up."
You lifted your head, a mock glare on your face. "You planned this."
"I hoped." He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "But I didn't know if you'd–"
"I would." You kissed him, soft and quick. "I did."
He smiled, and for a moment, the world was perfect. Then his hands wandered lower, and his grin turned wicked. "We should probably offer thanks to Eywa properly."
"You're insatiable."
"You have no idea."
He spread hot kisses across your neck and the curve of your breasts.
Dawn painted the forest in a soft golden glow as you and Neteyam finally stirred, now fully awake. The Tree of Souls is still humming with the memory of your union. The atokirina had scattered with the rise of the morning light, leaving only the moss and the lingering warmth between you.
Neteyam helped you sit up, his hand lingering on your lower back. "We should go back before they send a search party."
"Lo'ak probably already knows," you muttered, stretching your sore muscles. "He's insufferably nosy."
"He's also insufferably bad at keeping secrets." Neteyam's grin was soft, almost shy. "So maybe we... keep this between us? For now?"
You raised an eyebrow. "You want to keep me a secret?"
"I want to keep us a secret. Just for a little while." He traced a pattern on your thigh, gaze dropping. "I want to enjoy you without the whole clan watching. Without my parents' expectations. Just... us."
Something warm unfurled in your chest. You leaned in, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Fine. But I'm terrible at hiding things."
"So am I." He laughed, pulling you closer. "We'll be terrible together."
